


Voyages of the CI5

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: AU, Action, Adventure, Gen, Mystery, Professionals Big Bang, Science Fiction, Space AU, science fiction AU, space, spaceship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a futuristic world, Cowley hires two men to work as pilots on his spaceship: scarred ex-soldier Bodie and chip-on-his-shoulder Doyle. In the boredom of space, their early antagonism slowly grows to friendship. During Cowley’s dangerous missions for them, Bodie stands by Doyle as no one else has ever done. Then a galaxy-wide danger—and Bodie’s sudden secrecy—tests their friendship beyond what most could survive. Can Doyle stick by his partner no matter what, or will Bodie manage to push him away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Warning: contains mentions of child pornography (non-graphic)_

 

Amazing art, created by Togsos: [http://archiveofourown.org/works/543988](../../../543988)

 **Thanks:** With massive thanks to **Inlovewithboth**  and  **LillianOrchid** for encouragement and help when I got stuck and wanted to give up, to **Anna** for her helpful and diligent beta, to **Togsos** for her amazing and beautiful art, and to the mods for their help, encouragement, and kindness.

Note: This story is related to and inspired by "The Lost Ring," but doesn't match up exactly with it: <http://teaandswissroll.livejournal.com/456238.html>

 

 

 

 

**Voyages of the CI5**

**Part one**

**Pilots**

By Allie

The first thing Doyle did was cut his hair.

He’d let it get too long, unsuitable for a pilot. It was hard to cut it himself. He had to sort of guess in the back. It was springy as coiled steel. He managed in the end by dragging a few pieces out to their full length at a time and snipping off a few inches. Hair spronged back to his head, like Slinky coils.

He wouldn’t need to pull it back now, could let it be loose the way he liked without having to risk anyone telling him it could get caught in equipment (power drills, robot arms, even the sonic showerhead). He’d taken one look at this Cowley character’s holo and known: this bloke would be a stickler.

Doyle wore his nicest clothes, clean and pressed, his leather jacket wiped down and waxed. It was old, comfortable and soft as butter. He thought he looked O.K. when he peered doubtfully into the mirror. But his face looked hungry and wary, making his uneven cheekbone stand out in sharp relief. When he smiled, the mirror showed a chipped tooth and the wary, feral smile of a lad from the slums, a man who’d fought for everything he had and scrabbled his way up from the dirt.

Sometimes Doyle hated the old boys club that would look no further than his appearance, wouldn’t even take a glance at his impeccable record. He thrust his chin out defiantly, put hands on hips—and then quickly removed them. Wrong emphasis, perhaps, as if he meant to sell more than his piloting skills. Which he most certainly _did not._

He was whistling through his teeth (false bravado, perhaps), his soft, battered canvas bag slung casually over his shoulder, when he headed out to see this Cowley for the job interview.

A broad-shouldered man with short hair, a leather jacket that looked nearly new, and an Army-issue space bag bumped into him hard, knocking Doyle to the ground against a metal grating.

“Watch it, sunshine!” Doyle levered his burning hip from the grating, rose, and hurried after the man, face burning with anger.

The soldier barely glanced back. “Oops.”

The look in those eyes said that was no accident. What was this man’s problem? His smooth face and insolent stare would’ve proved him to be a hard man even if his walk hadn’t. He looked dangerous, he acted dangerous, and for some reason, Doyle just couldn’t let it go.

“Somebody ought to teach you to mind your manners,” spat Doyle, showing his teeth, standing at his tallest. The smooth-faced bastard wasn’t any taller than he was—well, not more than an inch or two, anyway. But something about him looked as though he thought he was taller than everybody.

“Have time for that, do you?” With a grin that shaded into a smirk, the man tapped his wristwatch.

Doyle glanced down at his own and forgot the stranger in an instant. “Bloody hell!” He yanked his bag after him as he ran, all out, none faster. Footsteps rang after him. Well, the bastard could wait. Doyle wasn’t going to be late for the best chance at a decent job he’d had in weeks!

Ahead, the compact, aging spaceship loomed. Doyle began to slow down so he wouldn’t run into it. A trim, elderly man stepped in front of him.

“What’s the hurry, gentlemen?” The soft Scottish burr held amusement and a hard edge.

Doyle skidded to a halt, trying to back up, to keep from ploughing into the man who’d appeared as if from nowhere. A force of nature, one George Cowley. _Captain_ George Cowley.

“Sir,” said the man behind him—just as he ran into Doyle. A hand snapped up into a salute.

The solid shove of unforgiving flesh and bone propelled Doyle forward, tripping and skidding on his boots as he scrambled for purchase. A noise like a bell ringing sounded as he smacked into the ship’s smooth metal surface. He collapsed like a ragdoll. The other man couldn’t have clocked him any better if he’d done it on purpose.

Head ringing, Doyle stared up at the frowning, wrinkled face of Cowley and the smooth, hard face of the soldier. His wicked blue eyes didn’t even try to hide their laughter. Until Cowley looked at him. Then all traces of smile and smirk disappeared and the man was once again a rigid soldier at attention.

“Bodie, I presume?” said Cowley, his voice rich with sarcastic inflection.

“Sir.” The soldier saluted again.

“And Doyle.” Cowley looked down at Doyle like one resigning himself to his fate.

Doyle scrambled to his feet, head ringing, chest hurting and the rest of him aching in a dozen places. His knees had hit the ship hard, then he’d landed on his coccyx, and the breath had been more than halfway knocked out of him. He only nodded, since he didn’t yet have the breath to do anything other than gasp for air.

“Very well. Follow me. And wipe your boots.”

Doyle cast a wary glance at Bodie. The soldier gestured expansively for Doyle to go first. Ray narrowed his eyes, then whirled on his heels and followed Cowley. His back twitched at the thought of Bodie following him.

As they followed Cowley into the bowels of the ship, the lights flicked on a few at a time ahead of them, lighting the corridors and rooms. It was an old ship, made with a preponderance of metal and no plastic to speak of. Its curves were rounded, generous, as if the makers had never heard of a shortage in suitable space faring metals.

Cowley finally reached the room he must’ve intended to and stopped, reaching around to manually flick on these last lights.

“Move it, sunshine,” said Bodie, putting hands that felt too hot and large on Doyle’s shoulders and moving him forcibly to the side. He stepped smoothly around Doyle and through the doorway. “A test is it, sir?” His voice held nothing but respect now.

Doyle entered the computer room and glared at his opponent, ready for any chance to beat Bodie.

Cowley looked at them both critically. “I’ve seen your records, both of you. But now I need to see if you’ll pass my tests. Sit down.”

Doyle grabbed the nearest seat, and saw Bodie glance over at him with a sly, teasing, challenging smirk.

Doyle faced ahead to his monitor, grimly ignoring the mind games. _He’s going down. No ground-pounder is a better pilot than I am!_

#

Half an hour later, Doyle was sweating bullets, wondering whether Bodie was in fact better. The other man sat hunched at his console, concentrating just as hard as Ray, silent and still, barely a twitch as he worked the controls on the simulation. He didn’t even jerk in surprise or anger or utter a curse, the way Doyle occasionally did. Ray wasn’t proud of himself; it was just the way he piloted. He got very involved, threw his whole self into piloting, and that sometimes came out in different ways than Bodie’s steely, soldier stillness.

But Bodie hadn’t quit yet, so he must still be in the running; the computer kept giving them both simulations. Perhaps Bodie was even getting better scores.

In the programme Doyle dealt with an asteroid field, a partial engine failure, and an attempted pirate attack. He dealt with the pirate attack well, but then the next test skipped right to a scenario where he’d failed, the ship was dead in space and the pirates aboard.

An impossible situation. Great. Doyle hated such tests, designed just to yank your chain. If you blew up the ship, you were a doomsday machine; if you tried to salvage something, or ram the pirate ship with the last of the power, a hopeless optimist.

A savage annoyance filled him. Always bloody _testing._ And no matter what he did here, it would give Cowley the excuse to choose Bodie. Well of course he bloody well would. Cowley was ex-military himself. Who else was he going to choose?

Doyle punched in the sequence to set poisonous gas circulating through the ship, then he set the ship on a collision course for the pirates and cycled the engines, sabotaging them to explode. He punched the finish button and hopped up.

“Done.” He turned round, trying to keep his voice bright and free from the anger he felt. Showing it rarely improved matters.

Cowley stood just at the back of the room, close enough to have been watching them all the time. He stared at his handheld, then looked up at Doyle and smiled. “Not one for half measures, are we, lad?”

Doyle shrugged. He let his eyes go to half-mast, feigning that he didn’t care, preparing himself for Cowley’s crisp rejection.

The bulk that was Bodie rose and moved to stand beside him. “Me as well, sir.”

“Oh yes?” Cowley raised an eyebrow. He glanced at his handheld and practically smirked. “Indeed you are.”

“Of course if it was a real test, I’d do things you can’t on a computer, sir.”

“Yes, Bodie? And what would that be?”

“I would hide in a storage compartment and wait for my chance, then kill them off one by one. Sir. I have the training for it.”

“I know you do.” His gaze transferred to Doyle. “And you as well?”

Ray’s answer came out defensive. “I know karate. Might do better than you think.” He purposely didn’t mention the skills he was less proud of: his speed with a knife.

“That wasn’t what I meant. What would you do if the test was real that you can’t do on a computer?”

Now that he understood the question, Doyle took his time answering. “I suppose I’d talk to the captain, see what he wanted to do. If we couldn’t negotiate something, and perhaps even if we could and they didn’t stick to it, then yeah, I’d fight hand to hand. Better to go down fighting. There’s always a chance that way, isn’t there? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been underestimated, and it might work to my advantage. I’m pretty good in a fight.”

He deliberately didn’t look at Bodie, but it was hard not to. _I’ll prove it and fight him,_ he wanted to add.

Cowley looked at each of them for long moments, then he lowered his handheld, slapping it into his free hand. “Very well. You’ll start immediately. Takeoff at 0700. I’ll expect you to have your gear stowed and flight suits on.”

Doyle blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Sir?” said Bodie, sounding as perplexed as Doyle felt.

“Yes, Bodie?” For a moment, Cowley looked almost kind: a gently amused, patient older man who thought of Bodie and Doyle the way one would of young boys: childish perhaps, but with potential.

Bodie stood at bewildered attention in his stocky soldier’s pose. “Which one of us, sir?”

Now Cowley did smile. “Both of you, of course. I don’t want my ship unattended for even a moment. You’ll work on shifts, and I’ll take turns as well. Well, gentlemen? If that’s all?” He made a production of looking at his wristwatch. “You have twenty-nine minutes before takeoff. Use it wisely.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” Bodie saluted.

“Yes sir,” echoed Doyle, finding his voice at last. He had a job. No more barely meeting his expenses. No more being stuck on the ground. Even if he had to share the job with Bodie, this was the best news he’d had in weeks. (Anyway, they’d be working different shifts.)

Cowley watched them with that amused look. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

Doyle felt immediately foolish for not having known they were already dismissed. (But at least Bodie hadn’t known either.) Then he felt foolish _and_ angry when he and Bodie nearly got stuck in the doorway. Each tried to get through it first, and they both jammed up the doorway.

Doyle dug in an elbow ruthlessly and squeezed ahead. Then he was running, his boots pounding the metal corridor, his hair wild and free, his grin big enough to almost hurt. He had a job!

Bodie’s footsteps pounded after him, but that didn’t matter. Bodie hadn’t beaten him. Bodie hadn’t won. And Cowley, impossibly, had seen Doyle’s potential where every last captain looking for a pilot had failed to for the last two months.

#

Despite his speed, far faster than Bodie’s, he reached the ship just moments before 0700, one bag slung round his shoulder, two in his hands. He moved quickly—quicker yet when he saw the CI5’s doors closing.

“No! Wait!” He sprang into a sprint. “I’m here! I’m not late!” Running full out carrying all his worldly goods wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. But, he managed it anyway.

“Wait!” He shoved one bag in, slipped sideways, lithely wriggling through the doorway. He tried to yank his last bag through, but the door was shutting too quickly. He pulled his fingers back to avoid losing them. This older ship either didn’t have sensors to stop the door from crushing people or else they’d been disabled so the ship could take off in a hurry if someone dangerous was following them: a deadly sort of ship to be on, to be sure.

“Lose your bag?” asked Bodie in a silky voice.

Crouching on the floor, Doyle turned to glare up at him. “You could’ve stopped the bloody door.” He scrambled to his feet.

“Oh, mate, but it’s 0700. You were a bit late.”

“I wasn’t!” He strode past Bodie, slapped the button to open the door, then ran back and reached through for his bag and snatched it. The ship’s engines began a throaty roar. Doyle ran back, slammed the button again to close the door, and sent Bodie a glare. “How’d you make it so fast, anyway?” From Bodie’s smooth, cool exterior, one would suppose he’d been here for ages, all ready to go.

“Well, mate, some of us don’t try to travel with everything we’ve ever owned.”

Since this was far too close to the truth, and Doyle couldn’t think of a good comeback, he settled for ignoring Bodie. He hefted his bags again and mustered what dignity he could for the walk to his new quarters. He realised he didn’t know where they were, though. He turned to Bodie, without thinking, his mouth opening. “D’you know where—”

He stopped abruptly, Bodie almost colliding with him. He’d been following Doyle far too closely. Bodie smirked, and smoothed down his comfortably fitted jumpsuit, as if to remind Doyle he wasn’t wearing his. Bodie’s jumpsuit seemed made for him: the perfect fit, as if the bastard had been the human model used to make jump suits in the first place.

“You’ll have to ask Cowley,” said Bodie. “I’m just new here.”

Doyle whirled and strode away from him, anger making his steps longer than usual, louder on the metal floor. He wondered if they’d survive this trip, and if there had ever been a bigger arse than Bodie. The man just delighted in laughing at him all the time, even when Doyle didn’t really deserve it.

However, he acknowledged that he had this time: he should’ve remembered earlier, or run faster, should’ve asked Cowley before they left where his quarters were. As it was, he had no time to find them, no time to change properly.

Cowley was obviously at the flight deck controls; the ship rose with a smooth hum, barely shaking at all. He’d have the flight coordinates set soon, then probably summon both men to the bridge. And Doyle, who didn’t know his way around yet, wouldn’t be in his suit.

Making a face, he flung his bags on the ground in the hall and shimmied out of his tight jeans and loosely-fastened shirt. He ripped the balled-up jumpsuit from his third bag and shook it out, slid one foot in, then the other, worked it up and over, then got his arms in and began to button. He’d never switched to zippered jumpsuits; since he usually didn’t wear anything underneath but drawers, he didn’t like the risk of painfully catching his chest hair in the zipper.

He buttoned it halfway up his chest and then stopped; his skin needed to breathe till he cooled down from his run. And to be honest, Doyle didn’t like things too tight at his neck anyway. He turned to shove his clothes into the bag and pick up his luggage again—and saw Bodie standing at the end of the hall, arms folded, wearing a smirk.

“Shy little thing, aren’t you?” asked Bodie, his mouth curving up in a teasing smile.

“Who you calling little?” Doyle dropped the bags and strode over to stand in front of him, hands on his hips. “You a peeping Tom, mate?” He looked Bodie up and down with narrowed eyes. “Not like you’re much to write home about.”

Bodie tsk’d. “Jealousy’s an ugly thing.”

“It certainly is, but not as ugly as you! You watch yourself—mate.” He poked Bodie in the chest, twice. “And _not me._ ”

“You _are_ shy. Wouldn’t have thought it. If someone strips down in front of me, not much I can do about it, is there? You did that like you were born to it.”

“Well I wasn’t!” Doyle glared at him, more offended than he should be by the inference that he was for sale, in one way or another. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard it, but it got old after a while, people just assuming he was on the make, with no reason as far as he could see.

He glared, his face inches from Bodie’s, searching for a reason to punch him, or at least a more convincing one than he already had.

Bodie simply gave him a calm, amused stare, meeting his anger with an almost mellow expression.

“Bodie! Doyle! To the bridge.” Cowley’s voice crackled over the ship’s intercom. Doyle turned away with a scornful look at Bodie, and started at half a run towards where he guessed the bridge would be. Bodie’s footsteps followed, which was a probable sign he’d guessed correctly.

When they burst round the corner, nearly in synch, Doyle was relieved to see the open doorway of the bridge and Cowley scowling, his arms crossed, waiting for them.

“I see you both made it. You will take the time to familiarise yourselves with the ship. Bodie, you are in compartment A2. Doyle, A3. Mine is A1.”

 _Nice. I’m ranked last._ Doyle struggled to keep a scowl off his face.

“And I would very much appreciate it if one of you would fetch me a cup of tea from the canteen—as soon as it’s _convenient._ ”

“I’ll go, sir,” said Bodie, turning immediately.

_Bloody suck-up!_

Doyle cleared his throat. “Aren’t there any robots on this ship—sir?”

Cowley stared at him so long Ray thought it was a punishment. “Yes. I haven’t started them up yet. The takeoff can interfere with their working. When we are well on our way, then we will start them and you won’t have to worry about menial tasks.” He stared at Doyle as if disapproving of his desire to avoid serving anyone. But Doyle had worked at enough shops and waited enough tables in his time, thankyouverymuch; he wasn’t going to feel guilty for not wanting to do a robot’s work on this ship.

“Okay,” said Doyle. He left the room, picked up his bags, and walked to A3. The door wasn’t locked; it slid open for him, revealing a militaristic bunk, neatly made with Army green blankets. The room was austere, grey metal walls unadorned, several lights in the ceiling and walls, and soft ones in the floor that glowed gently when he entered. He scowled around at the storage compartment—rather like a locker—and a fold-out metal desk and a plastic chair. He opened them, dumped his bags, and began to sort them out.

After he’d done what he could, he went in search of the canteen and his own tea. The ship wasn’t large, and it didn’t take him long to explore it. The canteen was cramped; he almost bumped into Bodie, the hulking jerk. He gave him a savage glare and slid past quickly.

“Quarters too tight for you?” inquired Bodie lightly. “Maybe it’s just that jumpsuit.” He turned, sipping his cup of tea, his eyes alight and amused.

“Oh, and yours is loose and roomy, is it?” snapped Doyle. Bodie, he decided, was fat. Nobody’s buttons should gap that way. His certainly didn’t.

Bodie simply smirked. He watched Doyle search the cupboards, standing on tiptoe, slamming them shut, at last turning to him.

“All right, where’d you get the tea things?”

Bodie nodded to the stove fixtures. “I left them there for you.”

“Pillock.” Doyle couldn’t believe he’d missed them. He moved to the stove, face heating. He touched his index finger to his tongue and tasted the sugar before adding any; it was salt. He gave Bodie a disdainful glare. “Oh, nice. Very original, that.”

Bodie smirked, shrugging broad shoulders. “I like the classics.”

Doyle walked up to him, eyes narrowing, holding up a fist. “Yeah? How about a fat lip? That’s a classic, too.”

Bodie raised his free hand in mock horror. “But sunshine, you’ll break a nail!”

“I’ll break you!” Snarling, Doyle lunged at him. Bodie’s response was a stifled giggle, and some spilled tea. They scuffled. Despite his bulk and the narrow room, Bodie was entirely slippery; Doyle couldn’t land a good punch.

“I’ll belt you,” warned Bodie, but there was still laughter in his face and voice.

Nothing made Doyle crazier than being laughed at. He lunged again—and suddenly found himself sitting down on the floor, holding his stinging nose, blinking hard. His eyes watered and he fought nausea.

“Can’t even take a punch,” said Bodie, and snorted. He walked past Doyle and left the room with haughty disdain.

#

“Doyle.”

Cowley entered the bridge without knocking. Fortunately, Doyle had been behaving. Aside from the interlocking metal puzzle in his hands, he was paying complete attention to the job, not sneaking vids or anything (though he was quite convinced Bodie did, all the time). Doyle didn’t risk it; it would be just like Bodie not to get caught whilst he did.

“Yes?” He straightened in the pilot’s seat and faced his new boss warily. It had only been a week, and so far Cowley hadn’t seen fit to interrupt one of Doyle’s shifts yet.

“Sir?” he remembered to add.

Cowley had worked out a schedule for them: time in the galley, time on the bridge, free time and a tentative sleep schedule. Doyle couldn’t believe anyone could be so anal. Bodie seemed to appreciate the chart and tacked it up in his room; Doyle saw it one time when he walked by and the door was open. He flopped his on the folding desk and promptly forgot it, all but his times on duty. He showered, ate, and slept when he wished. So far, Cowley hadn’t scolded him for ignoring it; but that might be about to change.

Doyle eyed the captain warily, awaiting news of whatever it was that made Cowley look so displeased with him.

“I’ll not have brawling on this ship.” Apparently, Cowley liked to come right to the point.

Doyle gritted his teeth, forced himself to breathe calmly. “Bodie’s telling tales, is he?”

 _Anyway, he won. Why would he tell the boss?_ Doyle had been halfway ashamed of himself since it happened; but also angry, and afraid he’d lunge at Bodie again the first chance he got and really hurt him.

Cowley frowned at him, as if thinking even less of him for what he’d said. “No, Doyle. I do happen to review my security footage once in a while.” (He said this with an awful, scathing gentleness.) “And I know very well who started it—you. Practical jokes are never an excuse for physical violence. According to your record, this is something you’ve done before.”

Doyle felt himself whitening at the amused understatement in Cowley’s voice. He gripped the chair, hard.

“Do it again, and I’ll leave you at the next stop. Even if it means I’m short a pilot.”

Cowley turned and left the room before Doyle could think of one single thing to say.

#

The first step, he decided, was avoidance. He would simply stay away from Bodie. Since they worked different shifts, it shouldn’t be too difficult. He would make sure he was out of the way when they were both free.

He occasionally saw Bodie, working out and sweating, either running in the hall or using the weight rooms, his clothing dark with sweat. They wore jumpsuits whilst on duty. Doyle changed into more comfortable clothes when he wasn’t. The time on the bridge proved comfortably boring, a simple routine.

He always stayed well away from Bodie whenever he saw him, feeling the tight anger curling in his stomach: Bodie had landed a punch and he hadn’t; and Doyle had been the one scolded.

He watched vids in his room. He worked out. And in some of his off-hours, he spent time relaxing in the cargo hold where the gravity was turned off. He did flips and lazy leaps, air acrobatics that left him feeling giddy as a child. He set up his camera to take lots of pictures when he was at it, crisp, clear shots that made him look like he was flying, or a gymnast. Afterwards he sorted through them, saved the good ones and wiped the rest. The best shots fit well with his collection of art.

He was the figure in most of his collection, but he’d managed a few other good ones: a girl sitting by a fountain, staring at the coins in the bottom. Geese feeding in a park. Trees, silhouetted mutely against an aging sky. A smiling, toothless grandmother, so proud because he’d asked her to pose for him. And a bunch of pictures of spaceships. He especially loved these, though he suspected they showed little in the way of art.

He loved the smooth lines and shadows, the careful curves and dips, especially of older ships. When no one was around, he took pictures of the CI5’s rooms and corridors from all the angles he could find. Sometimes he lay on his back on the floor and photographed so everything looked giant. He tried a great many things and found a quiet, tingling sort of satisfaction in the creation, the capturing of images.

He only took his experimental photographs when Bodie was safely stuck on the bridge. The last thing he wanted was to be tripped over or laughed at. Or punched again. Because of course Cowley wouldn’t have scolded _Bodie._

He sometimes caught the captain and Bodie talking over a cup of tea, Bodie leaning forward informally, his hands cupped round his mug. It made Doyle blazingly jealous, even though he didn’t want to talk to either of them. He always turned right around and left the room with them staring after him.

The third week, Cowley added a mandatory point to their schedules: workouts and weapon training with the “Macklin” defence droid.

Doyle was furious when he saw that his sessions were nearly double those of Bodie’s. He took some satisfaction from the fact that the Macklin droid had to be turned higher each time; that he nearly destroyed it the time when it wasn’t turned quite high enough and he was in a really foul mood. After that, Cowley kept it dialled to the highest levels for him, and Doyle couldn’t exactly complain. He bit his lip, kept silent about his aches and bruises. He wondered what level Bodie was at; but he couldn’t exactly ask.

#

Doyle woke in a sweat, kicking his covers off. He heaved the air into his lungs, listened to the comforting hiss of the air cyclers and the gentle hum of the spaceship.

He heaved a great sigh and flung his arms over his chest. He stared up at the ceiling’s dim lighting. He heaved to his feet and hurried from the room towards the canteen.

There sat Bodie. He was hunched over his own mug of tea, looking exhausted and in need of a shave. Doyle’s mind flicked to the schedule. Had he just got off his shift and Cowley just begun, or was this the middle of the night for him as well?

It didn’t really matter. Doyle ignored him. He clattered the tea things in his hurry, didn’t rest until he held a steaming mug wrapped in his hands. He sipped, almost burned his mouth.

He could feel Bodie’s eyes on him, watching, assessing. Assuming things, probably ready to come out with another jibe, insult, or rude assumption.

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Bodie in a mild voice. “Bad dreams, eh?”

Doyle cast him a dismissive look. He drank more tea, so hot it burned on the way down. What was it about this man that could always put him on edge, make him feel attacked?

“Well, me too,” said Bodie heartily. Doyle cast him a narrow-eyed, cautious glance.

Bodie smiled, bright, charming, nearly human. “Come on, sunshine. Sit down and tell us your problems!” He patted exaggeratedly for Doyle to take a seat on the chair beside him. “Tell Uncle Bodie...”

Doyle didn’t need to deal with this. He turned and walked abruptly from the room, flashing two fingers.

Behind him, Bodie made a sound that was part chortle, part choking on his tea.

Doyle strode away angrily. He looked down at his bare feet flashing beneath him, pathetic-looking, cold on the floor.

His loneliness must be reaching a pitch. For a moment, he’d wanted to stay, to believe that Bodie might not be mocking him. For once.

_Bloody fool._

Instead, he went to the engine room and sat on the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. He concentrated on breathing, finding his centre. After bit, he began some stretching exercises.

#

Bodie would never admit it to anyone, but he liked studying Doyle and the way he moved. Fluid and fast, or swaggering and slow, danger incarnate or supple and ethereal. His face could be dreamlike and eloquent, eminently thoughtful; it seemed to become a gargoyle of exaggerated hate when he glimpsed Bodie. His own fault, he suspected: Bodie did have a way of rubbing people the wrong way. But Doyle certainly had held a _grudge._

At times, Bodie rather wished they had got off on a better footing. The man was far more interesting than he had at first assumed. Too light-framed to be a good fighter, he nevertheless was. Bodie had hacked into the surveillance footage for Doyle’s training sessions. Doyle’s savagery and skill startled him. Doyle must’ve been holding back that day in the canteen; nobody that clumsy could nearly destroy a training droid.

Since he’d first caught a surveillance glimpse of Doyle lying down in the hallway, splayed out, all angles and long limbs, camera in his hands, photographing intently from different angles, Bodie had made it his goal to figure this man out. It wasn’t as though there was much else to do except his job, working out, the occasional talk with Cowley, or vid watching. No: Doyle was a mystery. He needed figuring out.

At first he’d thought Doyle was a wannabe, a bit of space rat scum who couldn’t hold down a job but somehow thought that made him a maverick pilot. Bodie had been only too glad to push his buttons and get him in trouble with Cowley, prove he, with his proper training, was the only fit pilot here.

But Doyle was a fit pilot. His records, at least the ones Bodie had been able to access, proved it. In fact, they proved he shouldn’t be nearly so down-at-heel as he was. Anyone who could fly as well as the man in these records should be highly in demand. But he wasn’t.

Then there was the defensiveness. Doyle was the angriest man he’d met in ages, with a kind of barely suppressed fury about him, as though he expected to be attacked any moment. At first, Bodie had enjoyed winding him up. It was startlingly easy. A few dismissive looks, laughs, and comments about his size and clothes had put Doyle in a permanent bristle.

Of course, there was the fight to account for it, too. If you could call that a fight: Doyle’s clumsy attack countered by a good punch to his nose.

Cowley had spoken with Bodie about that, later. “I’ll not have brawling on my ship.”

“Yes sir,” said Bodie, knowing very well that excuses about who had started it wouldn’t go down well with a military man. Doyle had started it; but Bodie had been harassing him, and he’d already known Doyle had a short fuse. It was just as much his fault.

Cowley stared at him for a long moment, assessing Bodie’s face, though he was certain he was keeping it smooth and blank.

“A voyage can be quite long if your shipmates are your enemies.”

“Yes sir.” Bodie wondered if he meant Doyle only, or if Cowley would be angry at him unless he found a way to get along with Doyle.

The best they seemed to do after that was avoid one another studiously. If Bodie was using the workout room when Doyle entered, Doyle would turn around and leave. Bodie wished he wouldn’t. He could have bitten his tongue about how bedraggled Doyle looked, if only the man wouldn’t act as if a fungus had taken root in any room Bodie occupied.

His curiosity only grew; he found himself accessing more and more surveillance footage to study Doyle train, take pictures, and even fix himself a tea or sit down to eat.

Doyle liked to read whilst he ate. By checking back to older footage, Bodie saw that Doyle had been ravenous for his first few meals on the CI5. He’d eaten everything the computers let him access and gone away still looking hungry.

But after bit, he’d settled down so that he sometimes didn’t even eat a full ration. The food seemed to bore him. He read, growing so engrossed in his handheld reader that he sometimes steered his fork wrong, spilling his food down his front, and then looking down quite in surprise. It always made Bodie laugh, even if it was only grainy footage. Sometimes, Doyle didn’t even finish his meals, unless he’d had a particularly brutal workout.

The nights when he didn’t sleep he seemed to eat the least the next morning.

Bodie knew about nightmares, and he didn’t like knowing about Doyle’s. It made him feel like an idiot, being sorry for Doyle. Everybody had nightmares sometimes; it just happened. But on the nights when saw Doyle walking the halls with dark circles under his eyes (or working out, or reading, drinking tea and trying to stay awake anywhere but his room), when he should’ve been asleep, Bodie wanted nothing more than to fix it for his co-pilot.

Of course, because of his foolish (if relatively gentle) teasing the one time they’d both had nightmares and accidentally gone to the canteen at the same time, he’d probably never get the chance to do anything nice without being regarded with disgust and narrow-eyed scorn.

If he were honest, he wanted most of all to talk to Doyle. Cowley was an interesting man, but one could never forget he was the boss. He was also slippery and far too bright. One got the feeling he was always planning something. Sometimes, it felt like Bodie was always under review, being weighed and assessed. Except he didn’t know what for, or what about.

Sometimes he got inklings. The CI5 was awfully well-stocked with all manner and variety of guns, top-flight security tampering devices, a motorbike, and even the very latest cloak device.

Plus, there must be a reason a powerful, brilliant man like Cowley had suddenly quit his intelligence work (Bodie had looked it up; a vague-titled job but definitely intelligence work) and become a private contractor, not even with a large ship and crew. The battered old CI5, Bodie was halfway convinced, was some sort of government initiative, and he and Doyle were guinea pigs Cowley meant to use to test it.

He always shook that thought away as foolishness. They were simply pilots working for an exacting boss: a boring job but an important one.

#

When Bodie first cracked the access codes and got a peek at the rec room, he thought Doyle was just playing around. Perhaps he’d never outgrown a fascination with zero-g. All he was doing was pushing off from the walls, ceiling, and floor, turning flips in midair and generally looking rather graceful with his wild hair fluffed out around his face.

He was always so secretive about what he did in his rec room time—doors locked, no camera access—Bodie had figured it must be illegal or highly embarrassing. Having been around the Space Scout for a while now, he was inclined to think the latter. And something embarrassing would be very, very nice to have on Doyle sometimes.

When Doyle pursed his lips and looked so very superior—when he strode down the corridors of the CI5 like he owned it—when he acted like Bodie was little more than a grunting ape because he’d been a ground pounder—at these times, it would have been very nice indeed to be able to say something to put him right in his place. Bodie had spent several leisurely watches, after his latest time smarting under Doyle’s high and mighty perfection, meditating about how just hard his fellow pilot would blush once Bodie found out his secret.

Those daydreams had made the chore of cracking access codes more than tolerable. Well aware that what he was doing was illegal and could get him in trouble with Cowley, Bodie nonetheless worked out the codes only Cowley was supposed to have, punched them in, pulled up the camera feed, and prepared for a laugh.

And that was when he saw Doyle simply playing in zero-g.

At first, he was disappointed. Then as he scrutinised, he thought it was rather like gymnastics, and really, perhaps it _would_ be embarrassing if Doyle knew anyone was watching.

He seemed so utterly unselfconscious, as if he had forgotten the rest of the world existed.

Bodie took a couple of stills, in case it did turn out to be embarrassment-worthy later. When he heard a sound in the hall, he guiltily jumped and blanked out the camera.

In the safety of his own room, nobody was filming; there were no cameras in private quarters, to offer some measure of privacy, whereas cameras could be turned on or off in the rec room.

Bodie usually used the rec facilities for virtual games. He’d beaten his top kill score twice already so far this trip. It hadn’t occurred to him that you could turn off the gravity and have so much _fun_ with just the blank, white, padded walls and your own ingenuity.

Trust Doyle. Perhaps Bodie would try it next time.

Of course it would be better with another person there, a playful tag team contest, perhaps even a duel to see who could control one corner of the room or do the best stunts and mid-air flips.

Bodie sighed, put his hands behind his head, and stretched out on his bunk. Sometimes he wondered if he’d been right to so quickly antagonise Doyle. The fluff-headed grouch would’ve been better to have as a friend than the wary antagonist he was now. He was so prickly! Honestly, you’d think everything you said to him was an insult.

Of course it didn’t help that it had been, at first: he’d delighted in raising the ire of Doyle and landing him in it with Cowley whenever possible. Bodie, better at keeping his face blank and soldier-like when Cowley was around, had managed more than once to make Doyle look ill-behaved, sarky, and childish: someone who flew off the handle for no reason.

He regretted it now, but it seemed to be too late to change.

#

“Bodie.”

Cowley was NOT smiling.

“Yes sir.” Bodie rose from the captain’s chair and stood to attention. He searched his mind for something he could’ve done to deserve this angry and disappointed expression. He’d completed his duties admirably, he was certain. Then...what?

“You know that a captain is the law on his ship. That I own this ship, and am responsible for everyone and everything on it.” His glare was very disapproving indeed.

“Yes sir.”

“Then do you mind telling me why you have broken my trust and my passwords for surveillance footage? Including the most private ones you could find?”

Oh. Bodie gulped. “Sir. No excuse, sir.” None would be good enough; he’d been hoping Cowley wouldn’t find out or that he’d excuse it as a prank no worse than switching salt for sugar. One look at his face told a different story; he was seriously upset with Bodie.

“I have taken the liberty of erasing all your saved spying footage. If you ever do anything like that again without my permission, I shall turn you over to the authorities at the nearest port to be detained until charges can be filed against you. Is that clear, Bodie?”

“Yes sir.” Bodie stood rigidly staring straight ahead. Cowley wouldn’t... would he? Yes, technically Bodie had invaded Doyle’s privacy and tampered with ship’s codes, but he hadn’t hurt anyone. Right?

Cowley was still staring at him, glaring at him. “You will be on food pills and water for three weeks as punishment. And your sessions with Macklin are hereby doubled. I expected better from you, Bodie.”

Bodie grimaced. “Yes sir.” More Macklin? He was tired enough already. And food pills had no taste at all. He was effectively not getting to eat for the next three weeks. He would get his nutrients and calories, the same as a soldier on a long march: without taste, in horse pills you swallowed. They reconstituted into enough nourishment to live off in your stomach, but you didn’t feel like you’d eaten.

Cowley wasn’t done yet. “The man you’ve shown so little respect for hasn’t tampered once with my codes or invaded your privacy no matter how briefly. This ‘civilian’ has shown better sense than you have. In future, I expect you to learn from him in that regards. Use your head—and stay out of trouble on my ship.”

“Yes sir!”

Cowley was still watching him. Bodie felt beads of sweat sliding down his back, inside his jumpsuit.

What next? Only getting to sleep two hours per night? Bloody hell, but Cowley’s punishments were severe! All right, so he’d done something technically illegal. But people hacked ship surveillance all the time, sometimes even shared it publicly for download. He’d hardly been that bad. He didn’t even have anything of a sensitive nature on Doyle, just, well, those elegant shots of him twisting in midair, playful and serene. Which Cowley had now erased. So Bodie could never see them again.

Cowley was still watching them.

“I am certain,” he said carefully, “that you could turn your cleverness to better use. If, for instance, you wish to know more of Doyle’s life, you might try getting to know him. I know it’s a novel idea to you technologically obsessed youth, but there is something to be said for tradition,” he finished dryly.

“Yes sir,” said Bodie automatically.

Cowley was still staring at him. “He runs every day at 0900 hours. Use your initiative, Bodie.”

“Yes sir.” Bodie felt something lively and hopeful well up in him. Despite being angry, Cowley _did_ want him to succeed. And if Cowley thought he could do something, then he bloody well could.

Bodie began plotting how to turn Doyle’s running into a way of getting along with the curly-haired pilot.

#

Doyle’s trainers pounded rhythmically down the CI5’s corridor. Bodie grinned. He waited till the sound of them drew nearer, then began to run. Doyle would catch him up; of course he would; he was faster. But then he’d have to decide whether to end his childish avoidance tactics or let Bodie own the hall. Bodie was relishing the decision. Either way, it would be interesting—and perhaps very instructive.

There. Near enough. Bodie left his crouch and began to run silently, as he did best, so Doyle wouldn’t know he’d just started.

Doyle burst round the corner. His pace faltered as he caught sight of Bodie. Then he speeded up.

Ah, he planned to overtake. Bodie grinned and subtly altered his own speed, edging ahead, a little faster. Now, for a moment, they were side by side, running in synch.

Bodie looked over at Doyle and grinned. “Come here often?”

Doyle kept his face ahead, expression hard, determined. He put on a burst of speed. Bodie did, too.

It was exhilarating, finally having someone to test himself against. The Macklin droid wasn’t real. Anyway, it didn’t run. Doyle ran like bottled wind. His curls flew out behind him, his long legs stretched to full length, and he ran as if he’d invented running.

Bodie, for all his training and military skill, barely kept up. He wanted to say something now, before Doyle got away, but he didn’t have the breath to spare or he’d fall behind.

_You’re not bad, sunshine!_

Suddenly Doyle looked over at him and grinned. It was a crooked, chip-toothed grin. It startled Bodie to see this grumpy man could smile so broadly. It made Doyle’s whole face alight, made him look like a different person, alive with laughter and enjoyment. Bodie wished he’d seen it weeks ago. Perhaps he’d have been more motivated to earn those smiles instead of scowls.

“Not bad for a ground-pounder,” said Doyle—and pulled ahead like a greyhound. His curls bounced behind him, and his trainers ate up the corridor.

Bodie threw back his shoulders and ran harder. He smiled in spite of himself, his body singing with the enjoyment of adrenaline and competition and going, for once, as hard as he could.

And as surely as he’d lost the race, he knew he’d won a bigger one. Doyle wasn’t going to ignore him anymore.

_I win, sunshine._

Or maybe they both would. Perhaps Bodie could even provoke that smile again.

 

 

 

_end of part one  
continue on to part two_


	2. Zero-G

**Part two**

**Zero - G**

 

“Bo-die!” complained Doyle, dragging out his name. “Would you get out of the shower?”

“Why mate, you filthy?” called Bodie over the comforting hum of the sonics.

A fist thumped against the door. “You’ve been in there for ages and I go on duty in a minute! I’m reeking out here.”

Bodie’s mouth twisted into a grin. Well if the man was going to feed him lines like that. “Oh, I know it! That’s why I stand upwind from you.”

Through the door, Doyle gave a frustrated sigh. “There is no upwind on a spaceship!”

“Sure there is, next to the air vent.” He was grinning so hard he almost didn’t hear the door slide open.

“Right, that’s it. Get out.” Doyle grabbed for the curtain, still talking. “You’re the one who wanted to have a bloody race. I’m not sitting there for eight hours marinating in my sweat. If you pull this stunt again, Bodie, I swear I’ll—”

Bodie also made a grab for the curtain. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought. Must’ve forgotten to lock the door.

Now he held the curtain wrapped around himself, protecting his modesty—but not enough of it: a few inches near the top of his chest still showed. Showed his deep, conspicuous scars, the reason he never, never left his shirt open the way Doyle did.

Doyle’s irritation changed to a quick, unguarded look of shock, morphing immediately into something appallingly like pity. He blinked. Then a shutter came down over his face. “Sorry. I’ll wait.” He retreated quickly, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Bodie clenched his teeth. _Bastard. Bloody bastard. Just had to see my scars, did you?_

Bodie had no more self-consciousness about nudity than anyone who’d been a soldier. There was nothing about his body he was ashamed of—except this. These marks hadn’t even been his fault, but they still made him feel ashamed.

He turned off the sonics, threw on his clothes, and intended to say something pretty sharp and cutting to Doyle when he got out. But Doyle was gone. 

Bodie visualised catching hold of Doyle’s mop of hair with one hand and smashing his face with the other. A hard punch that would leave scars of its own, even after the robot doctors did their best. For a moment, he cherished the image, covering his own pain, the throb of anger and dismay in his chest. That Doyle should see him look small, should look down on him... It wasn’t to be borne.

Then he threw it aside. Someone had already smashed the little bugger’s face in. It hadn’t done any good.

But still. Something in Bodie needed his revenge. Something petty and cold and hurtful—so he could wipe that look of surprised compassion off Doyle’s face.

That quick, startled blink. As much as he’d grown to want Ray Doyle as a friend, he’d been appalled by that look on Ray’s face, and he’d do anything short of drown the little bugger to keep it off in future. Even make Doyle hate him again.

If nobody got to laugh at Bodie’s less-than-perfect body, nobody got to pity him either. Besides, he was bloody perfect if he kept covered up. They’d worked the hitch out of his step several surgeries ago, and the scars—well, they were just surface, weren’t they? Most of them.

#

Still damp and uncomfortable after his race against Bodie, Doyle shifted in the pilot’s seat and stared moodily over the view screen and all the controls. 

And they’d been getting along so well lately. 

For some reason, Bodie had decided to try to be friends, or at least not-enemies. He’d gone out of his way to talk to Doyle or challenge him to a race. He’d been funny instead of cutting, friendly instead of superior.

And now... he was utterly furious. 

Well, it had been rude. _Me and my stupid temper! He was pushing me, but I didn’t have to let him. I didn’t have to give in._ Except obviously, Bodie hadn’t expected Doyle to push back because he hadn’t locked the door, and he’d been really upset when Doyle glimpsed white skin and dreadful scars.

Deep and wicked, they ran all along the visible inches of Bodie’s chest. As if he’d been diced up for fun and sewn back together.

His eyes. For a moment, his eyes had looked so incredibly vulnerable. And then affronted: furious.

Doyle had wanted to scrub the images from his mind, to undo the last ten seconds and go on his shift without a shower. (Stupid, older ship! Should’ve had more than one shower...) 

He’d wanted to apologise. But all he could do was get out of there fast.

So that was why Bodie never left any buttons undone. Perhaps that was even why he’d harassed Doyle for being so careless about covering up. Because he couldn’t be.

Doyle put his head down in his hands, and sighed.

#

Bodie stood stiffly at attention. Beside him, close enough to touch if he’d dared, Doyle slouched, scowling. He looked and smelled highly disreputable, in need of a shower, a shave, and at least eight hours of sleep. Bodie had never seen anyone who managed to look so ragged after a single shift. If he’d been working for three days straight, then perhaps he might have warranted this appearance.

If he’d been feeling less irritated with Doyle, he’d have teased him about it. 

Then again, his teasing hadn’t exactly worked very well thus far. He’d barely managed to earn Doyle’s trust enough to talk with him sometimes, and Doyle still prickled up if pushed.

Cowley scowled at them. “We’ll be landing momentarily. I am not paying you as much as I am simply to pilot: you’ve both been training, you’re both physically fit, and I expect you to do a good job delivering my package when we land. If either of you fall down on the job, you’ll be left there. I can find new pilots if I wish.”

“Yessir,” said Bodie automatically.

“Yes sir,” echoed Doyle, a little slower. He kept his eyes straight ahead, watching Cowley’s face as if it contained secrets he needed to figure out.

Cowley tossed Bodie a metal canister, larger than a flask, shaped rather like a giant bullet. This sort of package opened in the middle when you twisted—but only if you had the right thumbprint to press against the lock area.

It could safely hold anything from biological weapons to fresh tea biscuits.

“Take that to Mr. Raven at Headman’s house. I expect it to take you under half an hour. Be back here at the latest by 5:00—or I’ll leave without you.”

So saying, he turned on his heel and left. Bodie and Doyle exchanged a glance. Doyle shrugged. “Let’s go.”

“Not so fast, sunshine.” Bodie hooked his arm and turned him back. Doyle cast him an enquiring look, not quite ready to trust him but not automatically lashing out as he’d once have done.

They’d come far, in that case, and Bodie was proud of it. He’d been slowly earning Doyle’s trust—at least enough for the occasional chat or banter, or shared meal. 

If only Ray hadn’t seen his scars...

“What?” demanded Ray, pulling his arm gently but firmly free.

“You’re not dressed for it.”

“What are you talking about? I read about this planet days ago. It’s hot, a jungle. I’m not wearing long sleeves.”

“You will and you’ll like it. Ever seen the bugs they get in some of these jungles? I have, mate. Go and put your flight suit on, and quick, unless you want to end up with bites the size of your balls on your arms.”

Doyle answered him with a quick grin. “Damn big bites.”

“Exactly, now hurry. I’ll wait for you—but only three minutes!” He aimed a swat at Doyle’s bottom to speed him on his way.

Doyle jumped a little, cast him a quick, annoyed glance—and ran.

Bodie grinned. He could get away with more and more these days, without bringing back that silent, enraged Doyle from the first few days—the man whose pride had been in such tatters that he couldn’t handle anything less than utter respect. And of course, Bodie hadn’t given him any at all.

Doyle ran back down the hall, wearing his flight suit, for once buttoned up to his neck. Bodie grinned, and jogged towards the door. 

Upon reflection, some of his white-hot anger at Ray had faded. Also, there was the trap that would spring as soon as Ray went to bed tonight. 

Ray deserved a bit of a prank for what he’d done, but it had been an accident really, and Bodie couldn’t hold a grudge forever. Doyle didn’t seem to be treating him any differently, so he got some points for that. 

Bodie thought relishingly of Doyle climbing into bed tonight and triggering the jury-rigged sticky bomb Bodie had set up. Exhausted, ready to sleep—and covered in smelly honey and grease. In his sheets, on his feet, all over. Bodie grinned at the thought. If he was feeling a bit more reasonable, he might have skipped even that and just forgiven Doyle. But as it was, he felt just annoyed enough to enjoy it.

The one thing that gave him a little pause was that, except for his first startled change of expression, Doyle simply wasn’t acting any different at all. 

Ray and Bodie reached the door, opened it and ran out together into the steaming heat of the jungle world.

It was like entering a sauna. Bodie breathed deeply of the smell of fresh, non-sterile, real tree-exuded air. Ahh! Reminded him of the army. So did his body’s immediate reaction of beginning to sweat. Instead of a carefully regulated, cool-to-comfortable ship’s temperature (a little warmer after you’d exercised, a little warmer near the engines), there was nothing but the pressing down, fist-on-your-heart heat. Beside him, Doyle sucked in a surprised breath. 

They continued running side by side, a nice, easy jogging pace they could’ve maintained indefinitely whilst running laps on the ship. Here, it was like an uphill marathon run: bloody wearying. Neither man slowed, and Bodie caught Doyle’s quick, sharp glance over at him. Bodie stifled a grin. Far too competitive, was our Ray. Of course that was one of the things Bodie liked best about him.

The path was made of gravel, clear and wide, and looked freshly-made. Broken trees and tread marks lining the edge told of the large road-making machinery that had cut this swath through the jungle. On either side, trees loomed large and damp and heavy with dark-green foliage, breathing out their oxygen and their wet smell, yet managing to be oppressive with it all the same.

Their shoes were nearly silent on the gravel, and they’d done nothing to attract attention except emerge, yet all the same here came the insects Bodie had predicted. A buzzing crowd, with the close, annoying whine of mosquitoes, only louder. And Bodie knew for a fact that there were no mosquitoes here, that these bugs bit and bit hard, and that they’d leave you a welt for days.

Without consulting one another, the men speeded up. The landing field was perhaps a five-minute run from the settlement. Even though it wasn’t far, Ray was panting hard by the time they reached the settlement built of wood. He was sheeted in sweat, his tight, springy curls flattened and bedraggled. His suit stuck tightly to his lower body, and he’d opened the top several buttons on his suit, with a defiant glare at Bodie in return for his disapproving look.

Now it was a simple matter of finding the right hut, delivering it, and dashing back. Bodie could see from the thirsty look Doyle cast around that he wouldn’t have minded finding whatever passed for a pub in this place. Bodie would have to warn him about eating or drinking anything local unless you were damned sure it was safe—and sometimes even then. He’d had the runs more often than he liked to remember, from trusting local food. Sometimes you didn’t have a choice, but that didn’t make it a wise thing to do.

Bodie found he relished the role of teacher. Of course there might be things Doyle was better at ( _he_ certainly thought so!), but maybe Bodie wouldn’t have to find out what they were any time soon. One thing was for damned sure: Bodie knew more about jungle life.

So it was without misgiving that he pointed and announced, “That’ll be the leader’s hut, Ray.”

Doyle cast him a quick glance. “How come I’m Ray, but you still haven’t told me your first name yet?”

Bodie didn’t have an answer for him, so he was glad to have reached the leader’s hut. He knocked.

Doyle stood by his side, holding the delivery. It was his turn; they’d traded off carrying on the run, tossing it to each other like a ball, careless of the contents. Bodie figured if they couldn’t survive a veritable ship crash they wouldn’t be in such a container anyway.

Doyle shifted his posture slightly, canting his hips and leaning a shoulder against the wooden structure. He carefully, casually scratched at his bared chest.

“Got a bite, did you?” asked Bodie with a nasty laugh. “I told you to keep it shut.”

“You keep it shut,” said Doyle, showing him two fingers casually. “Knock again. They didn’t hear you.” He reached out and applied his own knuckles to the door before Bodie could comply, rapping with an impatient, irritable, loud sound.

Footsteps, inside. From the jungles nearby, the heat steamed, alien birds called their secret messages to one another, and insects buzzed with the monotony of utter wickedness, as if their buzzing was a planned torture to slowly drive the newcomer inhabitants of this planet quite mad. 

The door opened, and a suspicious face looked out—over the muzzle of a large gun. Bodie found his eyes opening wider, without meaning them too, and he grew very still inside. Cowley hadn’t armed them. It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of delivery. Beside him, Doyle froze.

The stranger had a grizzled, bearded face and something about it that reminded Bodie of soldiers he’d known who’d gone round the bend.

“Delivery for Mr. Raven,” said Bodie in his best impersonal voice. 

“Are you Mr. Raven?” asked Ray, in a voice like one would use to speak gently to the young or very mad. He held the delivery container loosely, and seemed to have made his face extra friendly and calm. Bodie realised quite suddenly that he admired that ability, and that he was very, very glad to have Ray here by his side. There was nobody better than Ray at fighting a Macklin droid, so he’d be good with flesh, too. And Bodie had always dreaded dying alone without backup.

“He’s dead,” said the man. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ray, all polite kindness and genuine regret. “That’s very unfortunate. We can only deliver this to Mr. Raven. When did he die? Our boss will be sad to learn of it.”

“This afternoon,” said the man. He shoved the door open the rest of the way and jerked the gun towards them. “And you’re next.” 

Ray moved quite suddenly. “Move!” he shouted at Bodie, and dodged right and then left again at the man’s arm, smacking it down. 

The gunshot exploded, sending birds further into the forest. Bodie rolled and came up on the other side, but the man had already moved with a speed that should be beyond him, beyond any mortal man. He’d snatched Doyle round the middle, yanked him into the building, and slammed shut the door.

Doyle was gone. 

Bodie pounded on the door. “Open up! Bring him back!”

At least there was no second gunshot. The village lay silent: deadly silent. The insects buzzed.

Bodie looked around wildly. All the other houses, he realised, looked desolate, abandoned. Empty windows. Doors half ajar. His back crawling, he tried to look everywhere at once. He dashed for the cover of the nearest house, hoping to find some weapon, something to help him get Ray back.

What he saw made him back soundlessly out of the room, breathing through his open mouth, holding a hand up automatically in an attempt to shield himself from the smell. A man and a woman lay dead on the floor, black with buzzing flies—or whatever passed for flies on this world. The insects stirred and some of them rose at Bodie’s entrance, their buzzing increased. Then they settled back to their grim task. Bodie forced himself to look around for a weapon, something. 

He could rip the table apart for a wooden leg, a battering ram. But even that didn’t look very sturdy, and there was nothing else he could see in the tiny building, except a small bed strung round with mosquito netting.

He backed out of the building, breathing hard and fast. The smell followed him, now that he knew what it was. He forced himself to walk round the house that held Ray, looking for weakness in its defence, before giving up and starting the run back to the CI5, and the only help he would find. If it wasn’t too late already.

Cowley had weaponry aboard, and surely—surely—he wouldn’t leave Ray behind.

#

Doyle lay curled awkwardly on his side, breathing with a heavy, juicy sound through the one nostril that worked. Pain still danced fireworks in his brain, echoed in the rest of his body, a torturous symphony that was only just beginning to fade away. He hadn’t been beaten so hard or so professionally in ages. The ferocious, somehow impersonal attack, and the man’s speed—well, nothing was that fast. In short, Doyle had begun to wonder how long he’d be kept alive for, and why. And he’d begun to dread it.

Then, of course, there was the sour, mixed-up, unavoidable hurt feeling that went along with knowing Bodie had left him here to it. 

Well of course Bodie had bloody left him. What had he expected, the marines?

Across the small, sweltering room, the man who wasn’t Mr. Raven had abandoned and seemingly forgotten Ray Doyle. For the last few minutes since ceasing his beating of Ray, he’d been banging and prying and pounding at the canister, his attention fully engaged. He was nothing if not persistent, though why he hadn’t figured out yet that it wouldn’t open Doyle would never understand. He was only glad to be ignored and try to regain some strength. 

Perhaps, if he was very lucky, he would get a chance to run or fight back. No, fighting back would be useless. The man was simply the fastest and strongest Doyle had ever had the misfortune of seeing. Even as he was beating Doyle, Ray had felt the inexplicable wrongness of it, of the man. Nobody was that fast. He wasn’t... right.

However, if the man was distracted long enough, and Ray was lucky enough (lucky! Ha!), and the wind held that way, then perhaps, just perhaps, he’d be able to make a run for it and escape to the jungles. (And do what? Live by his wits, city boy like him?) Of course it would be too late to go for help because the CI5 would be long gone by then, but at least he’d try. At least he’d go down with a fight.

Doyle closed his eyes again in misery, and focused on breathing, till he had the annoying, sharp prickle at the back of his eyes under control. _Damn Bodie anyway._

He felt a rivulet of sweat slid down his chest. It itched, and he couldn’t even reach up to scratch his bare chest without risking attracting the man’s attention. As he watched, a large insect settled on his chest and lowered its jaws. Doyle winced at the sudden, sharp pain. Bodie had been right, blast him.

Ray closed his eyes and endured it. Not much else he could do...

#

Bodie had never been more glad of Cowley’s dangerous, decisive past (the mysterious bits and the less-than-mysterious, Army-related bits). The old man jumped into action with a speed that belied his years. He gathered guns and robots and a motorbike. Within minutes, he and Bodie had reached the dead village fully armed, wind in their hair leaving the insects far behind buzzing ineffectually. The robots followed at a fast pace, and everyone was armed to the teeth.

Using binoculars, Cowley regarded the headman’s house. He listened without interrupting as Bodie described walking around it, the general size, and the thickness of the walls he’d seen in the other building he entered. At last Cowley nodded. “Right. Shoot through the walls,” he ordered the robots, making a sweeping motion of his hands, shooing them forward, guns in their metal arms.

“But Ray’s in there!” protested Bodie, appalled.

“These guns are non-lethal.”

“Oh.” Why hadn’t he noticed that? Was he losing his edge worrying over Ray?

“Stand back, lad, and prepare to fire. Yours isn’t,” he added, giving Bodie a look that he found hard to interpret, but which seemed to hold a warning.

Bodie firmed his sweat-slicked grip on his gun and swallowed the dehydrated feeling in his mouth.

The robots opened fire. 

Sound waves worked their dangerous task, slowly stripping the walls, reducing the wood to toothpicks, leaving gaping holes in the once-sturdy house. Now their firing should go through, and—

A roaring emerged from the centre of the building, and the man with the gun burst out of the doorway, easily knocking down what was left of the door. He swatted about him at the sound waves as if at flies, he then turned with his gun and—

Cowley and Bodie fired, at the same time, round after round.

The man dropped, but it took six rounds each. Bodie was breathing hard and fast by the time they’d done, sweat gathering on his upper lip and in the small of his back. He walked quickly towards the building, past the enigma, the dead man. The corpse who should’ve been stunned by one shot of the robots’ guns.

He forced himself to go and look at Doyle’s corpse, to be certain. _Don’t hope,_ he told himself. Hope didn’t get you anywhere, Doyle was dead, that was all, like countless men before him. Bodie had told himself not to get his hopes up so many times in the past, and so often, he’d been right. They died; they bloody died. The good died young, and Bodie didn’t, and wasn’t this job supposed to be piloting and delivery and not more bloody war?

_Oh Doyle..._

He walked into the wreckage of the house and spotted him on the floor, huddled on his side beneath a pile of splinters.

Beaten to a pulp, he was nonetheless recognisable—and alive.

“Ray. Oh, Ray.” Bodie was there in an instant, shoving aside bits of house and detritus, brushing him off and gathering him up, to Doyle’s answering, protesting yelp, and his quick flinch and then his sharp, angry volley of curses, starting high and fierce, and continuing low and monotonous while Bodie drew him nearer, and drew him carefully, slowly from the wreckage.

#

There was the cleanup, of course. Cowley was anxious to be off. He set the robots to checking for signs of life, and then told them to burn the buildings and the whole settlement if there weren’t any. He said he’d put out a danger beacon once they reached the ship. He glanced Ray over (haggard, bloody, miserable and bedraggled), and pronounced him well enough to ride back with Bodie. 

“Deliver him to the infirmary and return at once,” was Cowley’s instruction. The captain looked so fierce and important that Bodie saluted automatically.

When they left on the bike, Bodie could see Cowley burning the body in the street personally, watching as though he had to be certain none of it was left, and the task was too serious for robots. Despite the heat, Bodie shivered.

The ride back wasn’t particularly long or bumpy, but he was acutely aware of how flinching and aching it was for Ray. Bodie sat in front and steered, Doyle sat on the back holding onto him carefully, more with one arm than the other, which he used very gingerly indeed.

Bodie didn’t ask what was broken. The medical robots would patch him up. They’d fix him. They’d fix him...

And so far, not once had Doyle spoken a word to him, except for that initial cursing. Hadn’t looked at Bodie, either. He was keeping himself very contained: a hard knot like anger, misery, or something more. Some very powerful emotion had taken charge of him. Bodie, who had wanted nothing more than to pull him protectively close and soothe him at first, had quickly pulled back and begun behaving more professionally in response to this attitude.

Now he wanted to speak but he didn’t. And Ray didn’t either, and the birds were calling and the heat was terrible even with the wind in your hair, and an insect smacked into Bodie as they drove, splattering painfully on his face. He brushed it away with a curse.

He heard a soft chuff behind him and realised Doyle had laughed, or tried to. All at once Bodie had to speak, couldn’t keep silent anymore. “What did he want, sunshine? I mean, I’m glad he didn’t kill you, very glad, but he seems to have killed the others...”

“I don’t know. I bloody don’t know.” Doyle’s voice cracked. His arm tightened around Bodie’s chest. “I thought you left. I thought you left and told Cowley I’d decided to stay!” A sound like a laugh, like a sob escaped him: a horrible sound.

“I didn’t,” said Bodie, more offended than he’d believed he could be with anything Ray could currently say. “I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you see? I automatically believed the worst of you. And you came back for me.”

Bodie’s mouth tightened. “So you feel guilty?” A miserable nod of the curly head against his back was his answer. “You feel guilty, when a bunch of people are dead, and you should be in surgery right now, and we don’t know what that... thing was anymore. You’re wasting time feeling guilty because you didn’t trust me?”

Again, a nod. “Oh Bodie, I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve—guessed. You’re a soldier, aren’t you? And I was only a bloody policeman and I never would’ve...” Again, the sound like half a sob, half a laugh. His hand tightened and Bodie’s anger drained away. 

“Tell me about it sometime, sunshine. For now just close your eyes and relax.” He brought one hand up and closed it over Doyle’s grip, keeping him there, holding him close, and driving one-handed till they reached the CI5. 

It turned out to be a good idea; Doyle was unconscious when they arrived, and Bodie needed to carry him indoors, to the doctor droids.

He didn’t let himself linger even a moment, but headed right back to Cowley. His whole being buzzed with the deep, dangerous awareness of the unknown, and of being needed at once by his commanding officer. Because what else could Cowley possibly be, no matter what the official relationship said?

He found Cowley standing away from the village while it burned. The robots stood collected around him, forming a circle. Every once in a while, Cowley waved irritably at an insect that got too close. He watched the village burn, its smoke rising in a straight, thick, dark plume, not shifted or dispersed by wind in the muggy, heavy air.

He turned when he saw Bodie. “You took your time.”

“Sorry sir,” apologised Bodie automatically, though he hadn’t taken his time, really. 

Cowley climbed on the back of the motorbike. “Home, and be quick about it. Robots, follow,” snapped Cowley, and they were off.

They didn’t speak either one on the ride back to the CI5. The first thing Bodie did inside was wash his hands, several times. Then he took a deep, deep drink of water, stripped off his clothes and showered for nearly half an hour longer than he needed to.

He was shivering, and he wasn’t cold. He went to the infirmary and peered in on the progress with Doyle. It always made him a little sick inside to see someone’s innards being worked over so coolly by robots, but fortunately Doyle was quiescent and whatever surgery he’d needed was finished, his innards stitched away all right and tight. He lay unconscious and dishevelled, a bit of dirt still on his pale face, eyes shut, curls drooping.

Bodie hesitated, then stepped into the room. The doctor robot swivelled at the sight of him, assessed his threat and apparently found none. Bodie hesitated, and then with the feeling that he was doing something he probably oughtn’t (like touching a butterfly that was too delicate to live if you brushed any scales off), he rested a hand gently on Doyle’s curls. 

Somewhere in the depths of his drug-induced sleep, Doyle stirred slightly. Bodie removed the hand as if scalded, and hurried away.

He went to Doyle’s room and carefully, painstakingly removed the prank bomb. He left the room cleaner than he found it, shame being a strange taskmaster for housework, and an unexpected feeling all round.

#

Everything ached, but everything worked. Doyle stood bare and hurting under the sonic shower, shifting his weight at times, letting the mild sound waves batter away all the dirt and sweat and blood and the vague but permeating, sickly smell of the planet. He scrubbed at anywhere that didn’t hurt too much to touch, though he knew very well it wasn’t necessary. He supposed scrubbing in a sonic shower was psychological, like Lady Macbeth’s hand washing.

He closed his eyes again, and glimpsed the savage, calm, no-longer-human face. He opened his eyes abruptly, breathing fast. What had the man wanted? Why beat him but not kill him instantly?

Under the gentle sonic waves, he shivered. He was going to need hypnos to get to sleep for a while, wasn’t he? He wrapped his arms gingerly round his ribs, and shivered. Around him, the sonics beat a gentle, cleansing flood, and he didn’t dare close his eyes again.

#

“Sir?”

“Interview begun 0800,” said Cowley in an official voice.

Doyle swallowed and wanted to leave the small, suddenly airless room. He looked at Cowley. “You wanted something?”

“Yes Doyle,” said Cowley, gently. “Sit down and tell me what happened after he captured you.”

And Doyle did, and Cowley kept at him. He must’ve asked the same questions over and over again in a dozen different ways, till Doyle’s voice was hoarse and cracked from answering.

He rubbed his eyes to try to get rid of the grimy blurriness of utter exhaustion. He glared at Cowley, his mouth twisting down. “You think I’m infected, don’t you? Whatever made him that way, you think I’m infected, and you want me to say he—he bit me or something? Well he bloody didn’t and if you weren’t such a bloody stupid...” He turned away, biting his tongue, trying to keep back the rest of the awful things he wanted to say. Trust him—curse out your boss and you got a new job, or more likely didn’t. Yet that knowledge hadn’t stopped him other times. At least not enough times.

“A bloody stupid...? Yes, Doyle, do go on,” said Cowley’s plumy voice. “I believe a ferocious temper is one of the signs.”

“Signs of what, sir? You still haven’t told me. What is he? What _was_ he? And why—why’d you rescue me at all if you just think...” His voice cracked, and he cleared it. “Can I have some water?”

“When the interview is over. What happened after he pulled you into the room?”

“I told you and told you, he bloody beat me half to death, all right?” Doyle’s hand slammed down on the small table and he jumped to his feet, glaring down at Cowley. “And if you think you wouldn’t have a temper after being treated like this I’d like to see it! You can take your job and you can shove it right up your arsehole. I bloody hope you choke on your questions!”

He spun and started towards the door, accidentally knocking over his chair in the process. It banged loudly against the metal floor.

“Not so fast, Doyle.” Cowley was there at once, fast for an old man. He caught Doyle’s arm and gave it a hard yank, and it was automatic, Doyle couldn’t help it, he spun round and punched the old man in the nose.

Except he didn’t. Cowley had anticipated his move, somehow, and moved aside, and instead landed a hard, ringing blow on Doyle’s nose.

He was still weak from the hard beating and the surgery, and surprised by the blow; Doyle’s legs crumpled under him. He slid down the wall and sat down hard, blinking.

Cowley looked down at him and smiled. “Aye, lad. Perhaps that will teach you not to lose your temper.” He leaned over and offered Doyle a staid, clean white handkerchief, embroidered with a fancy C. “Hold your nose, and tilt your chin,” instructed Cowley, guiding with his fingers till Doyle complied, sniffing and miserable, nursing his bloody nose.

“Why?” he asked between sniffs.

“Because, lad, I had to provoke you to lashing out. I will give you credit, you took longer than I expected you to from reading your files. I had to see your reaction time. But don’t fear: it was truly human. You are safe now. The incubation period would’ve already been far along enough to have claimed you.” A hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “Aye, and you still have your job left, if you want it, after you calm down. Keep that handkerchief on it, now.” A quick pat, and he rose to his feet, and walked with swift, confident steps from the room.

Before the door shut automatically behind him, Doyle heard Cowley say, “Don’t give me that look, Bodie. It was necessary.”

Doyle closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth, utterly miserable. Bodie had been listening?

Ray was busy wallowing in his pain and misery when Bodie came in, uncharacteristically hesitant before he stepped over the threshold. The sturdy, confident soldier hunkered next to Ray and held out a glass of water with a drinking straw in it. “Drink this,” he instructed, guiding the straw towards Doyle’s mouth.

Doyle drained the glass.

He even let Bodie steer him to the infirmary. But neither of them said another word.

#

“First off, I owe you lads an apology,” said Cowley. The two pilots sat respectfully across the small table from him. It was the same room where Cowley had interrogated Doyle so endlessly, and Bodie was as well aware of that fact as he thought the other two must be. He sat nearer to Doyle than he perhaps had to. The feeling that he needed to protect his fellow pilot had been unshakable ever since Doyle’s injuries.

Though the droids had patched him up well, and he’d nearly fully healed (tackling the Macklin droid on 1/3rd strength would be _fully_ healed for some people), Bodie had been unable to shake the feeling that Doyle was wounded and needed someone to look after him. Perhaps it was the way he looked sometimes; as though, even though that strange aberration had long since stopped beating him, Doyle hadn’t stopped expecting to be hit.

Bodie’s response made sense to him logically. He’d expected Doyle to be dead, felt some responsibility for his situation and for not being able to save him faster. When Doyle survived, he felt like he’d been given a second chance. Something about nearly losing someone you’d come to want for a friend was apparently very telling on Bodie’s mind. 

It irritated him sometimes, this new feeling of needing to protect Doyle. For the most part, he managed to keep it in check: but when he hopped up to get the door for Doyle (when he didn’t need to), or fetched him tea every time instead of making him get his own, he suspected the feeling was showing even as hard as he’d been trying to keep it in check.

So far, neither man had called him on it. Doyle sometimes shot him a questioning, sceptical glance, but for the most part he just gravely accepted whatever consideration Bodie spared him. Cowley probably knew what made Bodie tick better than he did himself, and Bodie was halfway afraid of what the old man thought: ten to one he considered it a weakness. But nobody had said anything and Bodie expected the protective feeling would wear off once Doyle recovered more fully.

Now, he and Doyle both straightened at the unexpected news of an apology forthcoming from Cowley.

“I should have prepared you better. Had I any idea the virus could have spread this far, you would certainly have been armed and informed of the dangers. The package contained vaccines and instructions for the micro-colony.” 

Doyle stirred, starting to open his mouth. Bodie nudged him with a knee. 

“You were both inoculated during your initial physical examination by my droids.”

“Then why--?” began Doyle indignantly.

Bodie elbowed him in the arm. Doyle gave him an affronted look, and a glance of silent communication passed between them. _Don’t piss off the old man,_ was Bodie’s message. _He’s finally explaining something!_

They both turned back to Cowley, who was watching with some amusement. “The inoculation, unfortunately, only works against an airborne, secondary infection. For primary infection—saliva or infected blood, etc, entering the bloodstream, it is impossible to stop. Most people die within a few hours of contracting the illness. It spreads quickly. The only ones it leaves alive—the lucky spared—turn into those aberrations within days. Creatures like humans but faster, with a desire to kill—or infect. The fact that this one did not scratch and bite your flesh was an indication he had only recently turned. You may consider yourself very lucky.”

Ray snorted.

Bodie wanted to wrap that indignant, bony figure in his arms and draw him against his chest for a moment, and say, “Yes you were lucky, we all were, sunshine!” He didn’t do it, of course.

“The spread of this plague is something of a mystery. I can only assume it’s deep space traders. However, anyone who managed to catch the plague—even those who turned—should have been dead within days, far sooner than it would take to reach such a distant outpost. The world we just visited was at least two weeks journey at top speed from the nearest outpost. It is a great conundrum. However, you will both be armed from now on, and, I trust, on your guard. That is all, gentlemen.”

Doyle scraped back his chair and rose. “Just a minute, captain.”

Bodie looked at him, a feeling of dread playing dominoes in his stomach. _Don’t do this. Leave it. He told us lots._

“Yes, Doyle?” Cowley’s thin lips twitched in what could only be concealed amusement. 

Doyle looked very serious indeed, full of a righteous, stern cause. “That was a lot you didn’t tell us till now, sir. Is there anything else you’re not telling us?”

He was really quite brave, if bloody-minded stubborn. Bodie couldn’t help admiring it. Doyle’s nose was barely beginning to heal from the good punch Cowley had given him, and here he was tackling the boss again.

“Yes, Doyle,” said Cowley gravely. “There is.”

“And when are you going to tell us? When it’s our lives on the line? Or afterwards, when we’ve made another big mistake? Sir.”

“The things I am not telling you at this point are nothing to concern you—nothing to affect you. I will tell you if that changes. Now to your quarters. You need your rest.”

He shooed Doyle away, and then said, “Not you, Bodie. I want to talk to you.”

Doyle cast them both an angry, affronted, distrustful glare. He walked out with his back stiff and his shoulders tight, hunching upwards, as if he very much didn’t want to care if he felt left out. 

Bodie looked after him with a mixture of exasperation—how could he feel affronted so quickly all the time?—and fondness. Ray was really quite brave about it even when hurting, wasn’t he?

“I’m concerned by your change in attitude, Bodie,” began Cowley the moment they were alone. “At first, you were eager only to antagonise Doyle. I am glad you’ve overcome that impulse,” he added wryly. “I do wonder, however, whether this one is much better. I have noticed depths I had not expected from you.” He raised an eyebrow. “Well, man?”

“Yes sir,” said Bodie miserably. He was in for it now, a gently sarcastic castigation. He mentally hunkered down for it as he would have for blows he couldn’t avoid.

“It is very well to protect your partner when you are able to.”

“He’s not my partner,” insisted Bodie. “My co-worker. Possibly my friend. I’d like to think so.”

Cowley’s eyes grew more amused. “Very well. Your friend. It is very well to feel protective towards him, but ultimately you will each stand on your own. Either he will recover enough to be as useful as he must be to me, or he won’t. In neither case will it help you to baby him, or get every door for him, or pause to pat his head in the infirmary.” Cowley spoke with piercing gentleness.

Bodie flushed. “No, sir.”

Cowley regarded him for long moments. At last he nodded. “Very well. Remember you are a pilot and a soldier first—then a friend. Dismissed.”

Bodie shot out of his seat, saluted quickly, and left even more quickly.

He buried himself in video games for the next hour and a half. He didn’t care if he ever saw Doyle again, if this awful, embarrassed feeling was anything to go by.

At least he had the consolation that only Cowley, and not Doyle, had noticed his newfound protective streak.

#

“Don’t you hate that?” Doyle spoke without preamble as he plopped his food tray on the table and sat down opposite Bodie.

Bodie paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “When people start mid-conversation? Yeah, hate it.”

Doyle pursed his lips slightly and rolled his eyes. “I _meant_ when someone says ‘I owe you an apology,’ and then doesn’t give it!”

Bodie blinked, thought back to the captain’s admission. “What do you mean? Same thing, isn’t it?”

“No it bloody isn’t. If you say ‘I owe you an apology’ but not ‘I’m sorry!’ it means you’re not, doesn’t it? You may as well just say, ‘I resent you for being right this time, and I’m going to hold it against you in future.’”

Bodie snorted. “Come on, mate. You’re reading too much into it. He admitted his mistake. He said sorry...”

“He did NOT say sorry. He very carefully did not say sorry!”

Bodie went back to eating, waved a hand in the air to dismiss the issue. “Can see it’s going to be hell to pay if I ever owe you an apology. If I don’t word it just right you’ll hold a grudge for the rest of your unnatural life.”

“I apologised, didn’t I?” demanded Doyle. “When I judged you so wrongly on the planet. I said I was sorry, because I was. It’s not a matter of saying the right words—but of saying what you mean. When you tell somebody you ‘owe them’ an apology, it’s very clear what you’re saying and what you mean. You’re not sorry a bit, you just know you ought to be.”

Bodie’s mind flashed back to the thought of Ray, hurting and tearful on the back of the bike, holding onto him with only one hand and not much strength. And ‘Oh, Bodie, I’m sorry!’ He’d meant it so very much it had embarrassed Bodie, and at the same time, knocked all the resentment and hurt right out of him. 

Bodie’s response was gentler than it would’ve been a moment ago. “Not everyone’s like you, sunshine. Sometimes it takes all a man has just to admit he was wrong.”

“Well,” said Doyle, “not many people do that either.” He pushed his food around on his plate distastefully, as though it sickened him.

Bodie watched a moment. “You want some food pills instead?”

“Oh, yes, please. Will you eat this? I can’t stand the sight of it for some reason.” He looked up hopefully at Bodie.

Bodie reached across and scraped the food onto his own plate. Doyle was still waiting. Bodie licked off his thumb, and then wiped it on his napkin. “What? You expect me to get them for you? Do it yourself.”

Doyle’s face darkened. He jumped up, walked to the cupboard, stood on tiptoes and reached up till he found the open box of food pills. He popped two into his mouth, swallowed them dry, ignoring Bodie, and then drank two glasses of water. He walked from the room without another word.

Bodie wondered guiltily if he ‘owed’ Doyle an apology now. He’d merely meant to exercise some of that distance Cowley had recommended, not to hurt Ray’s rotten feelings. Actually, Bodie reflected, he should’ve got the pills for Doyle. He usually had got the things off the high shelf even when Doyle wasn’t recovering from severe injuries and surgery. And why didn’t Ray want to eat, anyway?

#

Bodie was expecting to be snubbed for at least half a day, but when he saw Doyle later, he was his usual sunny self—or as close to sunny as Ray ever got. 

Bodie kept a surreptitious eye on him whilst they both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Doyle finished first with his easier-than-normal routine and strutted from the room, walking confidently, his towel slung over his shoulders. As he passed Bodie, he unslung it and swung it at Bodie’s shoulders, swatting him in the back. He turned around and walked backwards, wearing a wide, cheeky grin. Bodie found an answering grin growing on his face and raised a fist in mock threat. 

Apparently Doyle didn’t always hold a grudge.

#

Bodie rolled over and tried to muffle his ears with his pillow. He scowled at the dark wall in front of him. A few inches on the other side, Doyle was having one of his nightmares.

It shouldn’t be audible through the ship wall; there was supposed to be sound protection built in. But this was an old ship, charmingly so in some ways, archaic and irritating in others.

Scowling, Bodie flung down his pillow. The moment his feet landed on the floor, the floor lights turned on, a low glow that even so made him squint.

He walked purposefully from his room and knocked on Ray’s door. “Doyle! Open up!”

If only it had been Bodie’s turn on deck when Doyle had his sleeping shift, instead of their downtime coinciding. He didn’t know how much more of this...

A yelp, a thump, a curse, and eventually the door hissed open, presenting a scowling, bare-chested Doyle. Here, even in the half-light of ‘night time,’ his bruises were shockingly deep and visible. So was the sheen of clear-cast on his healing ribs and right arm. He glared at Bodie, his eyes strange colours in the half-light. “Yes? What is it?”

 _Your nightmares are keeping me awake._ Saying so would only antagonise Doyle. After all, Ray couldn’t help it. “Time for cocoa and toast. C’mon.” Bodie jerked his head towards the hall. “And don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You’re eating.”

Doyle’s scowl deepened. But after a moment, he reached back for a shirt and followed. Both men were barefoot and dressed in loose, comfortable sleeping trousers. Bodie wore a long-sleeved shirt with a high, loose neck. Doyle pulled his button-up shirt on gingerly but left it undone. He looked disreputable, sleepy, and grouchy as hell.

They didn’t speak whilst Bodie made cocoa and toast, heating water for the cocoa packet while competently using the pull-out toaster insert in the cooker. The ritual of fixing everything and getting it in front of them calmed him. He sat down opposite Ray Doyle and looked into his face. Doyle looked sleepier and more peaceful than he had a moment ago, his eyelids drooping as he slumped in his seat, staring down at the toast. Bodie reached out to butter it for him, then stopped. Let Doyle do something for himself for a change, like Cowley had suggested.

“Doyle.”

Ray jerked awake, head popping up, blinking. “Hm? Yes?” He ran fingers back through his hair, trying very hard to look as though he hadn’t been asleep.

_And you haven’t been sleeping much if you’re this tired, either._

“Eat your toast. Drink your cocoa.” He nodded to the food and nudged Doyle’s leg under the table.

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Helps, does it?” He broke a piece off his bread, unbuttered, and dunked it into the cocoa. “When you have nightmares?” His gaze sought Bodie’s, then skittered away again. He slurped his cocoa toast; messy eater. 

“About your scars?” finished Doyle. He studied his cocoa very carefully, as if it held fascinating secrets.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Raymond,” said Bodie in a sententious, light voice—that didn’t come out as light as he had intended.

Doyle’s gaze flew to his. “So I was right! It’s a big secret. But why?”

Bodie grinned; he couldn’t help it. Even with the feeling of Doyle’s curiosity prying at him, at things he’d rather not talk about, he couldn’t help finding it amusing how intense Doyle was, how curious about things.

“It’s not a secret. I don’t like talking about it, that’s all. Do you like talking about that?” He pointed to Doyle’s cheekbone. 

A slim-fingered hand flew to it, cupping the misshapen cheekbone as if to protect it. “I got knifed. Repaired it best they could, and I could never afford a better surgery just to make it look fancy. It works, and I got used to it.”

Doyle’s simple, straightforward answer put Bodie rather to shame. He swallowed. “All right, mate. Same here, I suppose. I was dead for seventeen minutes. They fixed me, but it took a number of extra surgeries, and there’s no getting rid of all the marks, even if I wanted them to go back and fiddle with me more. Easier to just wear a shirt. Unlike some people.” He smirked.

Doyle flapped his shirt shut, but didn’t bother about fastening it. It fell open again, revealing the sprinklings of chest hair and the cast on his one side, the shape of his ribs clear through it.

“So you died in battle?” Doyle eyed him calmly. 

Bodie shrugged. “Apparently I was quite brave.” He stated it simply, but not the rest: he didn’t remember any of it. That day was a blank. He had a medal, one he would never wear, but couldn’t bring himself to throw away. They said he’d killed a dozen men, before they killed him.

“Seventeen minutes. So you’re like a miracle, or a marvel of modern science.”

Again Bodie shrugged. “They say my IQ used to be higher. But I’m still so much cleverer than most people I suppose I had the points to lose.” 

Doyle finally smiled. “That’s what I like about you. You’re so modest!”

Bodie nodded seriously. “An engaging modesty is one of my many good points.”

Doyle snorted and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face.

There, that hadn’t been any worse than having a fingernail extracted, anaesthesia-free. Nothing terrible had happened when he talked about the scars: he’d even been able to joke. And now he knew more about Doyle, too. 

“I’m going to bed, mate,” said Doyle, rising. “Thanks for the snack. And the talk.” Disconcertingly honest eyes met Bodie’s gaze. “It helped. Thanks, Bodie.”

Bodie gave him a light fist-thump on the shoulder as he walked by, and smiled. He had no idea what to say in reply to such words.

But it helped him, too.

He went back to bed. Just before he dropped off, he found himself thinking, _Maybe this is what it’s like to have a proper mate. Someone you can forgive and talk to and trust._

The thought of Doyle’s scars blended with thoughts of his own, and it didn’t seem so strange. If Doyle could wear his proudly, without shame, never hiding his face, why couldn’t Bodie? 

Perhaps because he’d always carried the vague, dreadful feeling that he wasn’t a hero, just a killer.

He fell asleep before working the rest of it out; but the talk had settled something in his mind, and he slept easily, deeply, and well.

 

 

_end of part two  
continue on to part three_


	3. Crimes, Punishments

**Part Three**

**Crimes, Punishments**

 

Doyle walked down the street with the tense, wary look of a man who expected to be attacked at any moment, possibly from all sides. Bodie glanced around automatically, trusting Doyle’s unease, but once again, he saw nothing dangerous. It was simply a rundown muddy street with a lot of shacks cobbled together and urchins playing with makeshift rag footballs. Clotheslines crisscrossed sagging between the buildings. A mother stuck her head out of an upper window and shouted, “Mary! Inside, now!” Someone else shook a rug out the window. Bodie and Doyle moved away from the cascading dust automatically.

At one of the shacks, a sign stood out at the front saying “Pawn and Lottery,” and an old, cold-eyed man sat on a dilapidated chair, fanning himself slowly, watching them pass.

As they neared the next street corner, a slim woman unfolded herself from against the wall at the corner. She smoked a cigarette, hand-rolled, and her hands shook. “Show you a good time?” she asked, moving into their path.

Doyle automatically detoured around her, as if expecting her to attack.

“Piss off,” said Bodie.

She gave him an offended glare. “Oh, _off-worlders,_ ” she said in a thick accent. She showed him a casual two fingers and retreated.

“Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” asked Doyle. His words were relatively casual, should’ve been laced with humour, but the look he sent Bodie certainly wasn’t. He looked annoyed, even reproachful.

“Why? What’d I do now?” demanded Bodie, catching him up and slinging an arm around Doyle’s neck. He enjoyed both showing affection that way and the fact that it annoyed Ray.

As usual, Doyle slid out of his grasp like an eel. He cast Bodie another glance, this one definitely getting into glare territory. “They’re people too, you know. You could just say ‘no thanks.’”

“You didn’t say anything,” pointed out Bodie, poking him in the arm.

“Yeah, well, didn’t have to, did I? My walk said it for me.”

“No, your walk’s been saying, ‘Oh me, oh my, scurry down the street before the big bad wolves catch me!’ What’s with you, anyway, mate?”

“You go to hell.” Doyle spoke with that feral, instant ferocity he managed so well.

Hearing it still stung.

Bodie shouldered his way ahead, letting Ray follow so he wouldn’t have to look at him or let him see his face. Keeping it smooth and cool wasn’t too difficult. Bodie was good at it. But he had the sinking feeling a lot lately that Ray was starting to be able to read through his masks, and of course it would be better if he didn’t.

They walked in silence for a few moments. “Sorry,” said Ray, and his steps hurried to catch up now instead of hanging back. His hand rested on Bodie’s bicep. “Sorry, Bodie. I didn’t mean that. ‘S’not your fault.” He gave Bodie’s arm a shake and then released him and hurried ahead.

Bodie watched him for a second, the tense set of his shoulders, the eloquent tension of his back. Both spoke of how he felt more than any words. Bodie let the mask fall away, and found he wanted to smile a little, to shake his head. Bloody hell, but nobody fired up as fast as Doyle—or apologised more quickly, more truthfully. Bodie couldn’t comprehend acting that way—quick to anger, quick to apologise. He had a deep, smouldering fire for his anger, not something he could quickly start up or shut down. Probably it had been there that day he refused to give up, and died...

But he saw the authenticity of the quick rage and quick apology in his friend, and so he had to accept it or just cut him off. And if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that he couldn’t bear to cut Ray off.

So he caught him up, slung his arm round Doyle’s shoulder again (pretending he didn’t see Ray’s grimace) and leaned closer. “So what’s the matter then, mate? C’mon, you can tell me.”

Ray freed himself again from the arm. “Just... don’t push me right now, okay? I’ll tell you sometime, if you want.”

“Right.” Bodie supposed he had to be content with that.

It was only a few hours ago that Cowley had given them their assignment, though Doyle had been tense for days. You’d have to be an idiot not to know the course was set for the Lawson colony. Apparently something about it set Doyle very much on edge. Bodie hadn’t been able to find out what.

“You should be able to find your way around, Doyle,” Cowley had said, fixing him with a stare that was disconcerting even second hand.

“Yes sir,” Doyle had responded, his face as blank as he could make it. Bodie waited till they were alone and asked what that was about.

It was Doyle’s turn to fix him with a hard stare. “Grew up here, didn’t I?”

Bodie had gaped, rather. It wasn’t on any of the records he’d hacked. Since then he’d been trying to work out just what Doyle hated about the place and where it fit into his timeline.

Ray must’ve left fairly young because the records Bodie had seen showed he’d gone briefly to art school on Vega 3, then joined the police force there. Since Vega 3 was a rather rough world, it hadn’t surprised Bodie that Doyle hailed from there. It sort of fit with Doyle’s tough edginess. The art thing made sense with how much he loved photography and those occasional glimpses one got of a sensitive soul Doyle kept well-hidden.

It was hard to imagine him as a copper, though. When Bodie first saw Doyle, and at odd moments ever since, he’d instead seen the flagrant sexuality of a hooker or a Casanova. Ray’s record said he’d been brilliant at undercover, and Bodie believed it, because absolutely nothing about him said “copper.”

Bodie couldn’t understand why someone who was brilliant at undercover suddenly left the police force and had since been living hand-to-mouth working odd jobs. Ray had learned to fly in the police academy, and apparently even won awards for his department in piloting contests. But still, he hadn’t got a decent job till Cowley hired him.

It was enough to make a bloke curious, and Bodie often wished he’d been able to access the more inaccessible of Cowley’s files on Doyle. Of course, he might have got in even worse trouble had he been able to, but that didn’t stop him from wishing he’d figured out the proper codes.

Just before their landing, Cowley told them why they were here. “You will pick up an exceptionally gifted scientist, Dr. Brunner. He is needed for the space-plague research. He’s been hiding himself away working here on Lawson for far too long. Your job is to find him and bring him here in forty-eight hours or less. And Doyle, don’t think I won’t leave you behind.”

_I won’t,_ Bodie had wanted to say.

#

They walked through the alleys and streets and byways for hours that day, searching and asking questions. Their relatively simple pickup job became much more difficult when nobody had seen or heard from the scientist for the last three months. Doyle was digging hard, but he didn’t have much to go on, only rumours and dead ends.

They’d reluctantly called Cowley and told him about the difficulty, asking for suggestions of where to look, but his response was less than helpful.

“I can’t wait forever,” he’d said in an even brusquer voice than usual. “It is imperative that you find him and deliver him to me. And if you cannot, my next stop is of even more importance, and you can stay there and look for him. I’ll return in a month or two.”

At the sound of that, Doyle’s knuckles had gone white on the R/T. He’d flicked it off without replying, and walked away, steps hard, angry—and scared.

Bodie did what he seemed to be doing a lot of lately: hurried after him.

He kept up a light, playful patter, and soon asked Doyle if he wanted to stop for tea and food. “I’m starving, mate,” he’d added with a grin.

Instead of his usual comeback something along the lines of Bodie always being hungry, or something about putting on a spare tyre, Ray had simply shook his head and said, “Let’s keep looking.”

So they had. For hours. When they finally stopped to eat it was for sausage rolls and they didn’t even sit down.

#

Bodie suppressed a yawn. Ahead, Doyle sighed and leaned against the post at the edge of the gate. It was quite a large gate, made of heavy, twisted, twining metal. Must’ve taken an age to make.

Bodie stood beside him, to the left and approximately one foot back from being even with him. He could still feel a sort of weary, restless nervousness emanating from his partner—along with irritation. Doyle hadn’t said anything more about it, in fact he’d said very little about anything, but Bodie could tell by the way he didn’t want to look at him or even walk with him that Doyle was still annoyed with Bodie for some reason.

While they waited for an answer at the research lab (their latest and best clue about where the scientist may have gone), Bodie oozed forward and slung an arm round Doyle’s shoulders again. “Ready to talk, mate? Or should I buy you a pint first?”

“Not on this world,” said Doyle shortly, and Bodie couldn’t tell if it was a comment on the likelihood of him ever drinking off-duty with Bodie, or if he literally meant this wasn’t a good world to get a drink on. Suppose he’d know.

Then someone was coming to the door and Bodie backed off and Doyle drew himself up to a sort of weary, almost-official look. The guard (dressed in white with a blue hat), looked them up and down. “I’ll need identification. What is your purpose here?” He held out a thumb-scanner; his voice was very bored.

Doyle hesitated, but Bodie didn’t. “We’re here for Dr. Brunner. We have authorisation.” Indeed, they had rather a lot. Bodie held his thumb out and let the man scan it, then handed over the papers Cowley had given them.

Even the guard looked impressed. “Very well. After I scan him.” He nodded to Doyle, who still hadn’t extended his thumb.

“Come on, sunshine,” said Bodie. He caught up Doyle’s hand, which seemed to be frozen at his side, and extended it. It was almost playful; at any rate, he certainly wasn’t rough. Doyle let him steer his hand, but he still seemed sort of stiff, unaccountably nervous.

The scanner went over Doyle’s thumb with its yellowish green light. It beeped. Doyle startled. Bodie blinked. The guard drew back and squinted at the readout. “Eh? You’re... wanted.” Whatever he next read made his lip curl. He looked at Doyle like something he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

Doyle turned, blindly, as if he could hardly believe this. An alarm started, ringing loud and clear from the building.

Doyle cast Bodie a strange look, combining so many things: disbelief, pleading, hopelessness and an agony of wanting to explain, make it all make sense.

Bodie’s face must have looked as blank, startled, and confused as he felt. “Eh?” he said.

Doyle reached out and grasped his wrist, quick and strong. “Get the scientist. I’ll meet you when Cowley’s back. And I’ll explain.”

And with that he was gone, leaping away, running so fast, losing himself in the streets of this world he hated so much, and knew by heart.

Bodie couldn’t have caught him up if he’d tried. And besides, there was the mission: and he had the authorisation: and he needed to pick up the scientist. He went through the gate with the scowling guard.

“What did that thing say?” Bodie couldn’t resist asking him.

“It’s not permitted to share details with civilians,” said the guard, going all stiff-necked and haughty. He cast Bodie a look that seemed to be weighing if Bodie deserved to be catalogued in with Doyle’s crimes, and then he unbent a little. “Shifty bastard. You could almost tell, looking at him.”

“Tell what?” demanded Bodie. The only thing Doyle might have done wrong was punch someone or get into a fight. He was far too conscientious to do anything more than that wrong. Certainly nothing you could despise him for. Bodie was torn between wanting to defend his friend and just wanting to know what the records had said.

“Well, I suppose it’ll be on the news tonight anyway. They’ll have to search for him. Your ‘friend’ is wanted for child pornography.”

#

Bodie got through the rest of the day on autopilot. He moved, spoke, drank and rested with little conscious thought. But for some reason he didn’t feel like eating.

He contacted Dr. Brunner, gave him papers from Cowley and assured him of the urgency of the situation. He took the man away with him, accompanied him back to his quarters so he could pack (and helped him pack, when the man proved to have the opposite of a military man’s precision), and he went with him back to the meeting spot arranged with Cowley.

There, he hired the man a room and gave him strict instructions to stay till called for. He sent Cowley a message telling of the man’s whereabouts. Then he headed out to find Doyle.

Of course, somewhere between the gate and the scientist, he realised that Doyle couldn’t have been involved in child pornography. Not only was that simply impossible for the Ray Doyle he knew, but it was also physically impossible. Ray had been quite young when he left this planet—far too young to have been some kind of wicked criminal mastermind. Even if he hadn’t, Doyle would never, never do something like that. He was far too moral.

There was a mix-up somewhere, and the system here was scary enough that Doyle was frightened about it; but he wasn’t really guilty.

Still the numb feeling stuck and stayed in Bodie’s stomach, chilling him all through, keeping him at a distance. He held his feelings at bay the best he could—because they were surprisingly horrible.

Cowley would come back, and leave without Ray, leave him to whatever punishment this society gave to men who were framed for child pornography. It wouldn’t be pretty; these outer colonies were known for harsh punishments.

And Ray, vulnerable, tough, chip-on-the-shoulder Ray, was out there somewhere, right now, running, hiding, terrified, and completely without backup.

Bodie kept an eye on the news feeds, of course. As he went about his job stoically, stably, he took moments here and there to glance at his handheld, searching for anything about Ray, criminals, police searches, or child porn offenders. It burned as bad as a slander against himself that they would say this against Doyle. Bodie couldn’t even defend him. He just knew, as much as he’d ever known anything, that they were _wrong._ And that Raymond Bloody Doyle should’ve trusted him, should’ve told him, should’ve let him help!

Bodie meant, of course, to get the scientist safely situated and then go back and find Ray in whatever bolthole he’d found. Or track him down on the streets—find him somehow someway before the cops did. But that was all a moot point, really.

Because before he’d left the hotel, he got a beeped alert for Ray’s name in the news.

He’d been captured.

The question now of leaving Doyle behind was hardly academic. With approximately twenty-four hours to free Ray from jail, leave without him, or quit his job and be stuck here.

#

When planning a mission, the key factors were to find out what skills and allies you had to help you. Bodie, on this planet for the first time, had no allies here. Nor, since Ray had been so unforthcoming, did he know of any Doylean allies or friends or family he could contact for help.

That left his own skills, expertise, and cleverness—matched against the looming deadline of Cowley’s return. Since apparently the whole colony was united against Raymond Doyle in his alleged crime, especially the police force, that didn’t leave a lot of scope for weapons, for going in guns blazing.

That left cleverness.

Whilst Bodie’s skills with the computer weren’t top notch, professional quality, he was quite good at hacking and changing things and getting into places—if he had the time.

Today, with a strange system, a lot of official protection, and a ticking deadline, he couldn’t hack into the police system in any meaningful way. The security made Cowley’s look like Swiss cheese, and Bodie hadn’t been able to crack all of Cowley’s even when he’d had leisurely weeks to go at it.

Thinking of Cowley reminded him of the authorisation he still had, and that was his salvation. Because that was easy enough to change a bit here and there. Cowley really had given them a lot of credentials; and whilst they were all set up to give Bodie and Doyle a chance to access the scientist, it only took him about an hour (once he had good computer access, which he had to pay for), to set up a false copy with his name given as authorised to access and remove Raymond Doyle.

They would probably squeal their heads off about complying, and it might not even hold up to prolonged scrutiny, but it was enough to get him through the door.

Bodie’s gun and combat training combined with Doyle’s vicious martial arts should be enough to take it from there, but it would be a near-run thing: they’d have to get right to Cowley’s ship and take off. There would be nowhere safe for them on the colony, if Doyle (who knew the world) hadn’t been able to hide.

The thing was, Cowley wasn’t here yet, and when he did land, it would be briefly. To get both Dr. Brunner and Doyle there, Bodie had to time things precisely.

He was glad enough to have a fair amount of credits stacked away in his accounts. It looked like he was going to need all the resources he could find.

#

Doyle ranged the small cell miserably, understanding how a caged tiger must feel.

Knowing Bodie had had no choice but to stay away, knowing it was Ray’s own stupid fault for being captured, didn’t make him feel any better.

He couldn’t help wistfully thinking that Bodie came back for him in the jungle, when he was trapped in the madman’s—the diseased man’s—hut.

But when that blasted guard said he was wanted, Bodie had looked so... stricken. Surprised. And like he believed it.

_And that was before he even heard what I’m wanted for._

Once again he cursed the laws on this stupid colony that could leave an eleven-year-old boy stuck with the same brand of evil as the man who’d taken pictures of him.

And himself, for trusting Bodie. It wasn’t Bodie’s fault; it was Ray’s, for letting himself make a friend. Better to stay enemies than feel this way. You got to count on someone being there for you, coming back for you, and it hurt like anything when they stopped. If he’d never hoped in the first place, this would hurt less.

He glanced at the chrono on the wall again. Only a few minutes now till the CI5 left the planet, forever without him. He wondered if he’d ever again see Bodie or Cowley, perhaps when he got out of jail someday. Probably not. It was a big galaxy, and he wouldn’t exactly be hunting them up to have a drink and chat about the good old days.

That was, of course, supposing he ever got out of jail. Three or four years would probably be all he’d get. But he wasn’t a child now; he wouldn’t serve in a juvenile facility (and those were bad enough). He’d serve in a men’s jail, a jail where inmates chewed up and spit out anyone weaker than themselves. And if a bunch of people ganged up on you, you were always weaker than they were. The logic of it ticked away in his brain, sealing his fate. Jail: serving on a child pornography charge would earn him enemies. If the fact that he’d been a victim came out, it would just make him look weaker, more vulnerable. And then there was the fact that he’d been a police officer. Oh, that would go down a real treat. And try to keep something like that hidden for three or four years in an infamous facility with corrupt guards. Yeah, he’d be dead before he ever saw the sun again—any sun.

Throat tightening in a claustrophobic swallow, Doyle turned blindly to face the bars and his glimpse of sky. Better than the clock. Perhaps he’d even get a look at Cowley’s ship taking off, one last sight of the smooth, beautiful lines of the CI5. His pictures and all his worldly goods were on that ship. What would they do with his pictures?

“I’m here to escort the prisoner,” said Bodie in a dull, bored voice.

Doyle’s back prickled. He froze. It was Bodie, it had to be; nobody could sound just like him. Ray still wouldn’t believe it till he saw, but he knew he daren’t look interested. How had Bodie possibly got in here, and what trick was he playing?

Even as Doyle tried to figure all of this, another part of his brain was yammering loud and insistent and happy as a kid at a birthday party— _he came back, he came back, he came back!_

“Let me see,” said the bored yet suspicious guard. Papers crinkled.

Doyle bit down on his lip to curtail a loud indrawn breath. Bodie never...? Those papers from Cowley. Had he somehow...?

Realising it was suspicious to keep his back turned, Doyle turned slowly, a sullen look on his face. He let his gaze slide up and down Bodie, as if gauging how hard he’d be to take in a fight.

The guard scowled down at the papers as if he could scrub the words away with his stare. How would they ever get to the CI5 in time? If they didn’t, they’d be stuck here forever. Cowley wouldn’t come back, and then they’d both be in jail, and how could Bodie be this cool? You’d never know he was anything less than bored and utterly in charge.

“If you’re quite finished,” said Bodie, taking the papers back from the sullen guard.

“I suppose everything’s in order.” The guard surrendered the papers and rose reluctantly. “Will you need help with him? He’s stronger than he looks.”

Doyle’s knuckles clenched at the reminder. Bruises from some quite unnecessary thumps on the ribs shouted at him like reminders of what was to come—if Bodie didn’t bloody hurry up and get him out of here.

“I think I can handle one little prisoner,” said Bodie with such scorn it caused a residual boiling of Doyle’s blood. That was how he used to talk about Doyle, before they were friends: _little._ When anyone could see they were nearly the same size! Bodie just seemed to think he was bigger than anyone else. And if you were counting his ego, he wasn’t far wrong.

Ray kept himself occupied with these thoughts, kept his face hard and his eyes unfriendly. They had to nearly force him from the cell. The cuffs chafed on his wrists from where they’d cut earlier.

Bodie pushed him ahead impersonally, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against his ribs. Then they were out in the hall, and more people were moving, everyone, so many people here, he hoped the bloody press wasn’t. _Oh hurry, Bodie, hurry!_

“Relax, sunshine. Walk don’t run,” Bodie whispered, a hair’s breath above silence, close to his ear.

_I’ve bloody well been undercover before. I know! But what about the ship?_

Bodie pushed him, and he went out the front door with almost a stumble, a hard look on his face, and then—

A camera snapped in his face. “What are you doing? Where is he going?” demanded someone who could only be a reporter.

_Oh please, oh please..._

“Sorry, Official Secrets Act,” bluffed Bodie, holding up a hand. “Talk with the office. Excuse me. He’s dangerous, you know.”

“Yeah, if you have any little kids around.”

“Please step back,” said Bodie.

In the slowly retreating, ugly crowd (mostly reporters, some passersby), fierce looks and a sharp elbow found Doyle. It shoved him sideways. Bodie’s hard hand caught his shoulder, yanked him back. “No more funny business!” he snapped, his voice sharp.

“Hey!” Behind them, just as they got through the reluctant crowd, someone very authoritative boomed. “Who are you? Let me see that authorisation!”

“Uh oh, jig is up, sunshine. Run!”

Doyle’s feet pounded across the pavement. It was surprisingly difficult to run, handcuffed and not knowing where you were going.

“Here.” Bodie snatched at his shoulder, half yanking it from its socket as he pulled him towards a stationary bike. “Like a classic, I do,” he said, laughter and fear mixing in his voice, both making it shake. He slung a leg over and almost pulled Doyle onto the bike after him. It was hard to balance; he couldn’t hold on properly. He had to keep both cuffed hands raised awkwardly to grip Bodie’s right shoulder the best he could as Bodie drove, hell for leather, leaning forward over the handlebars, dangerous as all get out.

But none of that mattered; because the wind was in his hair and they were flying, regardless of shouts and snapping photos and police sirens and up ahead, a silver ship awaited. Bodie had rescued him again.

Bodie weaved in and out of traffic with competent expertise, and they flew. Across the world Doyle had always trod, they flew.

Bodie was a hell of a driver, and this was the fastest vehicle Doyle had ever had the pleasure or fear of riding. He hung onto Bodie’s shoulders with his twisted hands and hoped he wouldn’t fall off.

They crested a hill, the sirens far behind now. Ahead the gleaming lines of the CI5, and damned if Doyle didn’t get choked up. It looked so much like _home._

It also looked like the door was starting to close.

“Cutting it fine,” gasped Doyle. Bodie slid to a halt, almost throwing them both to the ground. He grabbed Doyle’s arm and hurried them both for the ship. The door was closing, and the engines were on—ready for takeoff. Dr. Brunner must be inside already.

“Best that way, sunshine,” said Bodie. He was also breathing hard.

They ran and jumped into the silvery metal belly of the ship.

Doyle landed with a ringing thump and collapsed in a heap, unable to balance properly with his hands wrenched in front of him and cuffed.

Bodie leapt up and slapped the button to close the door, shutting out the approaching lights and sirens. He pressed another button and spoke into the comm. “Cleared for takeoff, sir!”

Obediently, the ship rose: and Cowley’s amused burr rasped in reply, “Cutting it a wee bit fine, lads.”

“Yes sir.” Bodie sounded almost smug.

“You brilliant bastard,” said Doyle, trying unsuccessfully to get his feet under him while the ship rose. “How’d you do it?” There was a sound in his voice like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me. Who framed you?” He gave Ray an arm up, looked into his face briefly, and jerked his chin towards the hall. “Come on, let’s have the robots cut you free. You can tell me on the way.”

“N-nobody framed me,” said Doyle.

“What?” Bodie stopped dead in his tracks, his shoes squeaking on the clean metal floor. His eyes shone such a very bright, shocked blue as he gaped at Ray. “You’d never.”

Those two words, said with such conviction, warmed Doyle’s heart more than he’d thought anything could.

“Well.” Ray raised and dropped one sore shoulder, trying to be casual. His voice sounded even more cracked than before. “I was the child.”

Bodie, give him his due, looked horrified.

So Ray tried to explain about the laws on that colony, how strict they were and sometimes unfair. They talked all the way to the robots, and over them whilst they worked.

Bodie protested, “I’ve heard of blaming the victim before, but that’s ridiculous! That’s why you don’t look down on prostitutes, isn’t it?” said Bodie, with a sudden flash of perceptiveness.

Doyle, rubbing his first free wrist, flushed and looked down. “Nobody chooses that life, do they? ‘Oh, mummy, I think I’d like to be a research scientist—or possibly a prossie.’ I’ve seen too much as a cop to buy that.”

And then because he was still ashamed that Bodie should think he’d done real, proper porn, should look down on him or pity him, he hurried to explain. As a little boy, he’d been tricked into letting someone snap nude photos of him for money, because it was ‘art.’ To be honest, he still burned with shame when he thought of it—shame and anger.

He must’ve been a gullible little lad, but at the time, it had all made perfect sense. The nice man showed him pictures in art books, and explained to him what art was. Ray had always been curious about art—drawings, photos, painting. He liked to get stuck in finger-paints whenever he could. This new thing had sounded exciting and fun, like taking all your clothes off and running through water, except artistic.

Then there was the money—not much, just enough for a lad to buy himself a bit more to eat without causing any comment from his parents or anyone else. Not enough for anyone to notice. And he’d been so very hungry, so often, it had seemed like a good trade.

It was only after a few weeks, when the man tried to sell him on the idea that you could make movies and do other things, that he’d felt really wrong about it. It didn’t seem too odd to stand around without clothes on and pose; he’d been an unselfconscious child. But the other things he tried to sell Ray on, that he caught a glimpse of once, made him run and not come back.

He might’ve been stupid, but he was stubborn, too: and even at that age he’d not been completely devoid of the instincts that had since saved his life more than once.

Three weeks later, the ‘art man’ was taken away by the police, all his creations seized. Other people went to jail, too. And then they started coming after the little boys and girls who’d been in his ‘art.’

At the time, there was a strict policy in the colony against child porn: legislation Doyle supported in any place. You couldn’t just ignore a cancer like that. But the policy of prosecuting the children went a little too far.

He’d been wanted for child pornography at the age of eleven.

“Me dad laid into me something fierce,” he finished with a rather flat voice, gone a bit cold. “Called me a stupid whore. But I hadn’t, you know. I thought it was art, those pictures. I never let myself get tricked into anything more.”

It was rather pitiful to comfort and excuse himself with these words, but Doyle had, for a long time. It hadn’t changed the way his bosses looked at him when they found out he was wanted, that there was any taint on his perfect record. And then they slung him out on his ear, off the force and fare-thee-well, even though on any civilised world he’d be counted the victim, not a criminal.

“Dad paid money to have me smuggled off the colony, away to live with my aunt. I got into a bit of trouble, but eventually I grew up all right, studied some proper art, and then got into the police academy.” He conveniently skipped over the ‘bit of trouble,’ hoping to preserve some tattered shreds of his pride. Perhaps Bodie would think he meant nicking sweets or skipping class, not getting into knife-fights and gang stuff.

To be honest, he’d had a huge chip on his shoulders for years—and had been doing much better, until they kicked him off the force and he suddenly found it almost impossible to get a job.

“Anyway enough about me,” he finished hurriedly, not wanting to reveal more than he already had (far, far too much—but Bodie deserved to know). “How’d you do it?”

Bodie’s smile came out seraphic and like sunshine. He thumped a fist into his open hand. “Well, mate, it wasn’t hard—for the likes of me. Got the scientist settled, told Cowley where he was, and changed those papers good enough to fool ‘em for a bit. I rented a fast bike, waited till I found a good parking spot, and took it. Then it was all a matter of timing and greasing the right palms.”

“Palms?” asked Doyle, stupidly. Had he bribed a cop?

Bodie nodded, looking proud of himself. “Find the nearest pub of the right sort, pass out some cash for causing a bit of disturbance, draw away some of the coppers. Worked a treat. There were fewer of ‘em around and those were busy and confused. I got away with it till we were nearly away, and then the bike took care of the rest.”

Doyle took a deep, deep breath. “You know you’ll be wanted there now, too.”

“Tell you what, sunshine, let’s not go back,” said Bodie as if it was the most profound piece of advice.

Doyle laughed, couldn’t help himself, and if that laugh was not entirely unmixed with tears, he couldn’t help that either. “You great big hero, you. When is it my turn to rescue you?” He punched Bodie on the arm.

“Careful, sunshine. I bruise.” Bodie enveloped him in an ape-strong hug that was somehow still careful: unexpected, exuberant, and really quite, quite nice.

Bodie let go after a moment, looking both embarrassed and pleased with himself. Then he jerked his head towards the direction of the bridge. “Better go report to Cowley. I’ll probably be on food pills for another month,” he added with a grimace.

“Oh?” said Doyle, frowning in confusion, catching him up and walking in step with him. “Why, were you in trouble with him before?”

“Yeah.” Bodie scratched at his hair. “Just a bit,” he mumbled, looking ahead and quickening his step.

Huh. Doyle followed, not about to question it more at the moment.

He knew one thing. He was _never_ going to forget Bodie had saved him.

 

 

 

 

_end of part three_

_continue on to part four_


	4. Lone Wolves

**Part 4**

**Lone Wolves**

 

“Get down!” barked Ray, and popped from his hiding place, mindless of the gunfire. He fired bullet after bullet into the crazed madman heading towards Bodie. His partner did a quick roll behind cover and came up firing. 

Something hot and sharp stung Doyle’s arm, a slow-burning pain. He winced but continued firing.

“Got him!” exulted Bodie, as the last of the plague-crazed madmen dropped. He leapt over his hiding place with casual ease and walked towards Ray, thumped him on the arm. “Let yourself get hit again?”

Doyle scowled down at the gorily-realistic wound on his arm. The programme seemed to take special delight in making your wounds look terrible. But it had already stopped hurting so much. “Flesh wound,” he said casually. 

The virtual reality faded away, leaving them standing in a big, bare room in the CI5, no longer muddy, wounded, or carrying weapons.

“You need to stop being so reckless, sunshine.” Bodie thumped him on the arm for real this time. “It’s all fun and games until it happens for real. Popping up like an idiot just because you thought I was going to be hit?” He rolled his eyes. “Some of us are proper soldiers, Ray. Can take care of myself.”

“Sod that. I’m trying to learn, aren’t I?” Was it his fault that he couldn’t seem to remember the need for cover any time he saw Bodie about to buy it?

Cowley’s new training programme was loaded—loaded with danger. The Macklin droid and their delivery work and special assignments had certainly honed each man to a steely fine edge of danger. But that wasn’t enough for Cowley, no. He insisted on loading them into this new computer programme. It took the place of Doyle’s zero-g relaxation time and Bodie’s video gaming. To be honest, Doyle didn’t mind nearly as much as he might have if they hadn’t been able to do it together.

Everything now was about solving the puzzles, wrangling with enemies (including killers and diseased madmen), and teamwork.

Somehow Doyle’s feelings of wanting to help and save Bodie must have come from more than just in a quick remark, but as an actual goal; he kept trying to do it in during the simulations.

Even if you were killed in the programme, it only stung rather badly. It wouldn’t count even if he could save Bodie because it wouldn’t be _real._ Bodie had saved him, twice, for real. And Doyle had never done anything but mistrust him or pry or need his help. 

“Ray.” Bodie moved nearer and put an arm round his shoulder paternally, as if about to impart wisdom to a younger relative. 

Doyle pushed him off and gave him a ‘look.’ He was nobody’s nephew—well, not anymore. “What?”

Bodie just sighed and shook his head, giving a resigned smile. “Oh nothing, sunshine. Let’s get a bite to eat. I fancy egg and chips.”

“You’ll get reconstituted goo and you’ll like it, like the rest of us,” said Doyle with a jerk of his chin in a nod, as if agreeing with himself.

‘The rest of us’ was he, Cowley, and the scientist Dr. Brunner. The doctor had been working long hours in the laboratory room Cowley had given him, and been given his own quarters in the back of the ship—rather better quarters than any of them had, even Cowley.

That was a source of contention for Bodie, who had bought himself some nice suits at the last stop (couldn’t resist the cheap cost of custom tailoring on that world—thought he was a clothes horse, apparently), and talked plaintively about wishing he had somewhere more to store them. 

Of course he mostly complained to Ray who couldn’t do anything about it, since his own room was full. But apparently it seemed much safer than complaining to Cowley, and really, Doyle couldn’t blame him for that!

#

Doyle sat next to Bodie, waiting nervously for the important announcement from Cowley. You couldn’t tell when Bodie was nervous, at least not usually. He just followed Cowley with his gaze.

“Well, gentlemen, our work was not in vain.” Cowley paced, his expression grim, hands tucked behind his back. “I was afraid of this, but now Dr. Brunner’s work had proven it conclusively. The plague could not have reached that colony naturally. It was seeded.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a glance. 

“But who would do that?” asked Doyle. Bodie nudged him. “Sir,” added Doyle.

“The picture becomes clear—and more ominous—when we run the track record of deliveries to the colony. There was only one in the last six months: a very large delivery by King Industries. Food, clothing—and medicine. New vaccines to test at a reduced rate.”

Bodie stirred uncomfortably. 

“They agreed to that?” asked Doyle. “And the vaccines didn’t work?”

“Evidently not, Doyle,” said Cowley. “It appears the virus in the vaccines was so virulent it infected every single person in the colony, as well as the representatives from King Industries who were there to monitor progress. According to my sources, two days after we left the planet with our narrow escape, a large cruiser arrived. We don’t know what happened there, or what it did, but records show that no one ventured to the surface. It stayed in orbit for two days, then left.”

Doyle glanced at Bodie again, to see what he made of this, but Bodie wore his best expressionless expression and didn’t glance at him in return.

“Recent flyby images reveal a large, scorched section of the planet where the colony used to be. It was quickly hushed up, but I have managed to get images documenting this. And the colony, sponsored by King Industries, has been quietly removed from the active list and placed under a hundred-year quarantine. All this, gentlemen, is most likely because of a new vaccine test. At the moment, we cannot prove whether the vaccine is to protect again this strange illness and failed or whether it had a different purpose and in fact created this illness—here and elsewhere.”

“You think they tested it elsewhere first, and that’s why so far it’s been in colonies instead of major systems?” Doyle leaned forward. “But that’s insane. How could they think to get away with it? And surely they wouldn’t keep testing a drug that caused a plague like that. It has to be natural.”

“Actually, until we have more information, we can assume nothing.”

Cowley turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Doyle to glare after him in frustration. At last he turned to Bodie. “Well? What do you think of that, mate?”

Bodie scraped back his chair. “Got to go, sunshine.” There was no inflection in his voice, and he sounded so very far away.

Doyle scowled after him as well. Bloody Bodie. Nobody could ever rescue him. He’d never even admit something was wrong.

#

“What were you doing?!” yelled Doyle, popping up from his hiding place and aiming a deadly scowl at his partner. “You’d have been shot twice if I hadn’t—”

Surrounded by dead virtual enemies, Bodie sat up and grinned, raising his gun and aiming at Doyle’s chest. “Bang bang.”

Doyle stopped. Bodie didn’t really pull the trigger—and it was ‘just’ virtual reality. But even here in the programme it chilled his blood to see Bodie’s cold smile, his muzzle aimed towards Doyle’s chest. 

Ray stared at Bodie, not knowing what to say. Who was this bastard? What happened to his friend? Bodie had been acting strange all week, but not this strange...

They didn’t speak to each other as the programme died away. As soon as the empty white room appeared around them, Bodie strode away, ignoring Ray and all the many mistakes he’d made in the virtual world. 

_And he says I’m reckless!_ Doyle scowled after that retreating back, wondering if he should chase after Bodie or not. 

But as he was learning, it did no good. No longer was talking over a meal or a cup of tea possible. Nor did he want Doyle near him whilst he worked out, ran, or relaxed after a hard workout. Bodie sweated in silence, alone, and shut Doyle out as coldly as if he’d never let him into his confidence. 

Instead of the smiling Bodie he remembered was a reckless, cold man who either ignored him or grinned coldly at him whilst pulling a not-terribly-funny prank like threatening to shoot him.

They weren’t even working together properly anymore. Cowley had even scolded them for it. Doyle was as perplexed as he was hurt when his partner didn’t wait for him any more in the simulations, wouldn’t work in synch with him, and always seemed too busy to talk.

He tried to tell himself he was being stupid; what did it matter if Bodie needed a little more time to himself? He had the right. No need for Ray to be clingy just because it was dull onboard the CI5 without a friend (now that he had got used to thinking of Bodie as a friend).

Torn between anger and insecurity, Doyle was trying to feign indifference. But he was finding it difficult to escape a very unpleasant conviction: Bodie had finally seen past whatever had made him willing to befriend Doyle, seen to the worthlessness beneath. Perhaps it disgusted him that he hadn’t seen it sooner.

Or maybe he was just having a difficult time and needed some space. Yeah. Space. 

_You’ve got all the space in the universe, and always have had._

#

Cowley was acting strange, too, but that was nothing new. He had a great many transmissions he didn’t want his pilots to know about, encoded so only he could receive them. If a message came in, he wished to be fetched even from a sound sleep. But he never let them know what the messages said.

His course was set at a fast speed towards Earth. Doyle had never been to Earth, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why Cowley was heading there: it was the base of operations for King Industry.

He thought of buildings a mile high, the blue sky and white clouds of mankind’s homeworld, the sounds and smells in its protected parks. If the CI5 stayed long enough, he could experience the world as his ancestors had. He thought of these things, rather than how Bodie was shutting him out.

One day Cowley cornered him in his quarters on this very subject whilst Bodie was taking the pilot shift. 

“Making a mess, I see.” Cowley looked around the small, less-than-neat room, his gaze sharp.

“What do you expect when you give us such small quarters?” Doyle leaned against his bed and met Cowley’s stare evenly. Even as he said it, he wished he had tidied up. He’d left his red shoes kicked off beside his bed, a shirt slung over the back of his chair, and the covers lumpy and not at all tucked away with the neat, military precision a man like Cowley favoured.

“Did you want something, or is that a new rule, that my quarters have to be neat as Bodie’s?”

“Don’t push your luck, young man.” Cowley sat down on the small room’s single chair, pointedly ignoring the shirt on the back of it, his mouth tight. “It is about Bodie that I am here. Well, man? What is wrong with him?”

 _I was hoping you would tell me._ It depressed Doyle that Cowley didn’t know what was wrong either. Cowley always seemed so very clever, as though he understood everyone and everything. 

“Did the two of you have a falling out?” demanded Cowley, fixing Doyle with a gimlet stare.

“No!” He glared at Cowley. “Why would you--?” Why should Doyle get the blame, as though he’d done something to Bodie to make him act like this? 

“Then what is wrong? His test scores are all over the chart, one day high and the next day abysmal. The teamwork between the two of you is virtually nil. Even his appetite has fallen.”

“That’s certainly out of character,” said Doyle, gathered rein over his irritation. Even if they weren’t getting along, he had a loyalty to Bodie, and complaining about him or agreeing with Cowley about his failings wouldn’t be maintaining it. “Have you asked him if he’s feeling quite the thing? A cold or flu can steal the appetite.” He gave Cowley his blandest, more innocent stare.

Cowley rose. “Ach, you’re not taking this seriously. Well, you’ll take it seriously when your life depends on Bodie’s reaction time and he doesn’t come through. Or would you prefer to take missions alone for now?”

Doyle hesitated just an instant too long.

“So, you’ve noticed it, then.” Cowley’s rasp was almost a purr of satisfaction, the tricky man.

“He doesn’t seem quite his usual self,” Doyle finally admitted. Sighing, he caught the shirt off the edge of his chair and half folded it, half balled it up and shoved it onto the top bunk. 

Cowley’s gaze didn’t leave his face. “Well?”

“Well I’m sure he’ll be himself again, soon, _sir._ I still trust him.”

“Even when he aims a gun at you?” 

This time, Doyle didn’t have an answer. “It was a joke,” he improvised. _A bloody stupid joke._

Cowley simply nodded and left, his mouth in a tight, grim line.

#

“Keep up, sunshine.” Bodie’s strides were fast and hard and he had a tight-shouldered way about him. He brushed past Doyle, his voice cold and faintly mocking.

Doyle pushed down the bristling anger he used to give in to when Bodie would goad him. Instead, he tore his gaze off the spectacular skyline and picked up his feet to catch up with Bodie.

Doyle glanced at his partner. Bodie walked fast and didn’t look around at all. He was either so at home on Earth that he wasn’t fascinated by the blue skies, white clouds, and high rises, or else he was so very focused on their mission for Cowley that he couldn’t find time to be awed.

It was unlike Bodie not to have time to smell the roses—enjoy life, make jokes, and find things that amused him, even if he had to create them himself. It was also unlike him to be so taken with Cowley’s missions, more usually preferring to pretend every task was nothing but casual ease to him, the ex-soldier. 

But a lot of things had changed recently. As Doyle caught him up, he wondered if he’d ever again be able to understand Bodie, to connect with him as a true friend. It had seemed so easy once; he’d been certain they would remain friends from that point on till infinity.

But that was only when Bodie wanted to let him in, when he wanted a friend. Now, Doyle was beginning to see that if Bodie wanted to shut you out, you stayed shut out until such time as he changed his mind—if he ever did.

Their assignment was to pick up a man named Kricket-Puff. As usual, Cowley hadn’t told them any more than the barest information he decided they needed to know. Which was frequently nothing but a name or an address for delivery.

Without turning, Bodie spoke. “I’ll leave you behind if you don’t keep up.”

“I’m right next to you!” snapped Doyle, stung by Bodie’s derisive tone. “Or do you think I should walk five paces back?”

“Think you can count that high?” said Bodie in a coolly casual voice, the posh and superior tones Doyle hated worse than any other. As he spoke, Bodie began to speed up, moving into a jog and then a smooth-paced run.

Doyle ran after him, keeping pace easily, glowering at his partner’s back. For a man who’d saved his life twice and become his friend when he didn’t even want a friend, Bodie was certainly doing a good impression of someone who despised him.

They passed buildings of dizzying height, full of metal and stone and reflective surfaces, some with televisions imbedded in them: some small, some as tall as Bodie. The imbedded televisions flashed news, weather, sports, and adverts. 

Along the walkway, small trees interrupted the unremitting glare of civilisation, rustling in the breeze, alone in their little plots of earth.

“Oi,” said Bodie, halting abruptly.

Doyle ploughed into his back. It was like running into a brick wall. Bodie’s muscular body was hard, tensed and as instantly still as if he’d been planted there like one of the trees.

“What?” asked Doyle, pulling back, flustered, tugging his shirt back into place.

Bodie cast him a derisive look. “Need brake-work, Raymond?”

“You stopped suddenly!”

“People do that.” He turned smoothly and crossed the street. “I’ll make the phone call. Buy us some sausage rolls, there’s a good lad.” He pressed money into Doyle’s hand without looking at him. The crinkle of old-fashioned paper money felt strange to him, like pieces of valuable old books.

“You can bloody—”

Bodie cast him a look, and tsk’d. “Would you rather make the call? Go on, I’m starved.” He fitted himself into the vid phone booth smoothly, and it would be easier to let him make the call to Mr Kricket-Puff’s office than try to pry him out. And Bodie did look better on a vid phone, more respectable even when he wasn’t wearing a suit. 

Doyle stared after him in frustration, then turned on his heel, feeling again that sick mix of hurt and unease that had been haunting him these past weeks.

Something was wrong with Bodie, just wrong. _But at least he wants to eat today. Maybe that’s a good sign._

Doyle quickened his steps back to a little stand that sold street food.

It only took him a moment to make the order. A minute for the vendor to slap together sausage rolls. Another moment to fumble with the correct price and accept back his change.

But when he turned back, rolls in hand, Bodie was gone.

What? He couldn’t have made the call that quickly, could he?

_Bloody Bodie. What sort of hide and seek trick are you playing on me now?_

Frowning, Doyle stuffed change into his trouser pocket as he walked, carrying the food one-handed. Where was Bodie?

His gaze flashed back and forth, cataloguing the street, the nearest vehicles, the pedestrians. It was a harmless city street, full of large buildings and mostly well-dressed office workers. Where could Bodie have gone? He’d stick out, surely he’d stick out. The hard set of his shoulders in that horrible grey jacket he wore, for one thing. Not to mention his angry walk.

_Why would he hide from me? He can’t mean to do the mission alone!_

There! Almost half a street ahead, he caught a glimpse of grey moving round a corner purposefully. Looked like he was going at a full run. But that was Bodie—had to be, there was nowhere else he could’ve gone unless he’d prearranged it with a vehicle to stop, pick him up, and leave. And even then—Doyle hadn’t heard any brakes.

He ran.

Maybe Bodie was just teasing him, in which case he deserved a right bollocking. But maybe—maybe this had to do with whatever had been bothering him for weeks, and he needed help.

“Bodie!” Doyle ran his fastest, skidded round the corner in his pavement-gripping trainers. He looked around wildly.

At the end of the alleyway, Bodie’s smooth hard figure vaulted over a wall as if that obstacle meant nothing to him.

“Bodie!” The word exploded from him, sounding furious. Doyle put on a burst of speed.

If anything, Bodie sped up. Now he was over the wall and Doyle flung himself at it. Dropping the sausage rolls, he attacked the wall: leapt, scrambled, jumped, and landed hard on his feet on the other side, straightening up and ready to run again.

Only he didn’t get the chance.

A hard grasp yanked hold of Doyle’s arm and flung him up against the wall, face first. Pressed against the hard concrete, his chest heaved.

“Bodie! Let me go! What are you _doing_?” Struggling only brought a harder shove of his arm up against his back. Sharp pain jolted up his arm and back. He squeezed his eyes shut and growled, “ _Bodie!_ ”

Bodie’s arms were hard, and his voice was soft, near Doyle’s ear. “Mind your own business, sunshine. We’re going our own ways from here on out—got it?” He gave Doyle’s arm another wrench that made Ray grit his teeth to keep from crying out.

“I’ve got it! Let me _go_!”

“Follow me again and you’ll get worse.” Metal clanked; as if in a nightmare, Doyle had the strangest sensation of handcuffs closing around his wrists, pressed bitingly tight by Bodie’s hard hands. 

He was shaking, and he spat, “Follow you? I wouldn’t follow you for—”

“And tell Cowley I quit. Had enough, moving on, whatever he wants to hear. See you, sunshine. Look after yourself.”

“Bodie—!” _Stop this! Just stop it! Bodie would never—_

But Bodie was doing it right now. He released Doyle. By the time Ray turned around, he caught only a glimpse of Bodie, running all out, utterly intent, already moving far away.

Doyle couldn’t get over the wall with his hands cuffed behind him. Back rigid with rage, Doyle worked his way around the building and began the long walk back to the CI5, a spectacle to every passerby. Bodie had made him a laughingstock. 

It was a good thing he was so angry. Otherwise, Doyle thought he’d probably have started to cry, and you shouldn’t cry over a friend who wasn’t a friend.

#

By the time the robot had cut off his cuffs and Doyle had told Cowley in short, clipped words what happened, he’d calmed down almost enough to think clearly.

But not quite.

A good bout with the Macklin droid left his fists hurting, lungs burning, and body shaking with pent-up stress only partially relieved. If his eyes had watered a bit and he’d blown his nose once already, there was nobody here to see, nobody here to tease him about it, never again.

_He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. What changed his mind about everything? Why wouldn’t he tell me before it got this bad? Maybe I could’ve helped..._

His mind flashed back to the sight of Bodie’s hardened shoulders disappearing round a corner. Bloody Bodie! Always did think he could take on the world alone. 

Doyle held up a hand for the Macklin droid to stop and then reached up to swipe sweat off his forehead. He looked down at his hand, realised it had stopped trembling (and about time, too).

The thought was niggling, annoying, and inescapable. Every time he pushed it away, it came back. 

_I should’ve gone along to help him._

Bodie had moved as though he had a mission—and Doyle hadn’t followed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pressed a hand against his forehead, swallowed, and headed towards the bridge. Thirst dogged him; he’d better have some water before following Bodie.

_Something’s definitely wrong! He needs my help, even if he doesn’t want it._

Despite not knowing what the trouble was, Doyle knew very well it was his duty to follow. And after—afterwards, when everything was okay again, then he’d give Bodie the bollocking he deserved.

_You don’t shut me out, handcuff me, and leave me behind, sunshine. It had better never happen again!_

Where did he get the handcuffs? From the CI5? He must have taken them along specially, planning that whole scene. Planning to cuff Ray. And what was his plan for the gun he’d taken? Ray had wondered at the time about the heavy armament he’d taken: a special gun that folded out to be longer than his arm, with deadly long-range accuracy.

“Doyle.” Cowley met him in the hall, walking purposefully down it. “Now that you’ve had a few moments to recover yourself, I expect you to complete the mission alone. It is a shame about Bodie, of course, but I still need Kricket-Puff picked up. You will proceed at once, now that you’ve finished exercising.”

Doyle’s shirt stuck to his chest with sweat; he was still breathing hard. “Yes sir, but what about Bodie? Something’s wrong, and we need to find out what.”

Cowley’s pale eyes stared at him, angry and hard. When he spoke, it was very softly. “Doyle, when I give you an order, you follow it.”

Ray’s spine felt cold with those chill eyes trained on him, accompanied by that voice. “Yes sir, but Bo—”

“Damn it, man, Bodie didn’t hire you! I did! You owe your loyalty to me, not to him! He’s not even the man you think he is.”

Doyle’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean by that? You’re just going to let him go?”

Cowley glared. “Of course I’m going to let him go—for now. The mission is too important. Eventually, of course, my sources will tell me what’s become of him. But if he can’t be trusted to stay the course, then I’ve no need for a man like him.”

Doyle’s throat hurt when he swallowed; everything hurt. “But _Bodie._ He was always your favourite.”

“Favourite? I don’t play favourites.” He stared at Doyle for a few uncomfortable moments. 

Doyle stared helplessly back. “We can’t just leave him. He’s in trouble, sir. He must be.” He didn’t know how or exactly when he’d gone from wanting to rip Bodie to shreds and dance on the pieces to defending him, but he had.

“It’s a shame about Bodie,” repeated Cowley. “But your loyalty to him is misplaced.”

“What are you talking about? He saved my life. Twice!”

Cowley’s stare was hard, level, inescapable as death. “Yes, and he ran away and left you handcuffed. Do you want to risk your job over a man like that?”

Doyle didn’t answer. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t trust Cowley more than Bodie, even when all the evidence indicated that he should. It just wasn’t right.

Cowley’s mouth tightened. “Come with me, man. There is something you need to see.”

Frowning, Doyle followed Cowley to the bridge. “What?” he asked, leaning his knuckles against the control panel in an aggressive and restless stance. “What do I ‘need to see?’” Sarcasm tinged his voice.

Cowley looked at him with an almost pitying expression. “Just this.” He hit a key and a security feed popped up on the screen. Bodie was in it, and it was of the bridge. For a moment, he could hardly believe it—didn’t quite register.

In the shot, Bodie was laughing. He watched something smaller on the screen, something... familiar. 

Doyle. Bodie was watching Doyle eating and reading, and spilling something.

“I regret I have to inform you of this,” said Cowley in crisp tones. “When I caught him I made him stop. He had already saved several hours of footage, and several hundred stills of you.” Cowley hit another button, and instead of Bodie, Ray saw himself, tumbling peacefully in the zero gravity, his face a thoughtful, quiet mask. 

The scene changed to one of him lying down in the hall, lazily taking photographs. Then running. Then eating again. Then fighting the Macklin droid. A flash of images, some only stills, other a few seconds long.

Doyle breathed through his mouth; he blinked hard and repeatedly.

“I see.” It came out in a croak; he didn’t sound like himself. He turned away, rather blindly. “I—I’ll just go fetch that—that fellow, shall I?”

“Kricket-Puff. Aye, laddie. You do that.”

Doyle almost bumped into the pilot’s seat leaving the room.

#

He walked the streets, but he didn’t see them. Bodie, laughing. Spying. Judging him for his hobbies, mocking him when he dropped food.

Even in the beginning, when Bodie was so coldly mocking towards him, Ray had never, _never_ expected that. He felt so exposed. The ache under his breastbone was unbearable.

He remembered other cameras taking pictures of him as he posed. At least then he’d known, it had been his choice, even if an ignorant, uninformed one that turned out to be the stupidest choice of his life—except for one. Trusting Bodie.

It just hurt too much. It shouldn’t hurt this much, when apparently Bodie had never really been Doyle’s friend in the first place. 

Ray stopped and leaned against a vid phone box, closed his eyes. Images flashed behind his eyelids: Bodie, laughing at him—Bodie laughing _with_ him. Ruffling his hair, smiling affectionately. Saving his bloody _life_. Being there when no one else would’ve come back for him. Believing in him, even without cause, without reason, without explanation. Just simply believing in him.

That same Bodie—a spy, mocking him. Amusing himself by watching Ray’s foolish hobbies, probably looking down on him when he exercised...

But that wasn’t the Bodie he’d known. The Bodie he’d known—after bit, not at first—had respected him. His teasing had been good-natured. Those earliest moments, when Bodie was unpleasant, had been short-lived. These latest moments, when Bodie shut him out so hard and then handcuffed him as a goodbye—they were also out of character.

The Bodie he knew wouldn’t have done that. He’d have bloody said goodbye. _He pushed me away. He pushed me away, but why, why?_

Those vids. Those stills. They were from early on, weren’t they? They had to be. Or else quite recently. But no, Doyle’s hair had been a little shorter in them. And they’d fit Bodie’s early attitude, when he was superior and mocking. 

But he’d changed. He hadn’t stayed like that. The real Bodie was his friend who had sprung him from jail. Whatever the reason he’s spied on Doyle long ago, he knew their friendship had moved on from there. There was something wrong for Bodie now – he just knew there was.

Ray straightened, rubbing the place between his eyes and opening them. He might never understand or figure it out, but he couldn’t, just couldn’t believe the worst of Bodie when Bodie hadn’t believed the worst of him. He might never see the man again—if Bodie wanted to disappear, something told Doyle he really could—but he couldn’t believe the worst of him just because of handcuffs or what Cowley had shown him.

Something was definitely wrong with Bodie, and Ray might never know what. But it almost certainly wasn’t about him at all. Ray had let himself be sidetracked by how much Bodie’s actions hurt. _But he must’ve had a reason. I gave up. I let him push me away. Bloody hell, he could be in serious trouble!_

As he straightened, the flash of a news feed on the wall opposite caught his attention. 

“At the King building, a gunman...”

The words faded away from his consciousness while Doyle gaped at the image of Bodie on the screen, running low for cover and dashing behind a wall. So this was what he’d meant to do with his gun. He’d unfolded it to full length, and the green glow showed it was fully charged and ready to fire.

The image looped, this time in slow motion, showing each movement of Bodie as he ran, and the intense, ferocious look on his face. His steadfast face, set for whatever danger lay ahead.

And he’d kept Doyle out of it, faced the world alone.

Doyle waited out the rest of the news feed. He absorbed it in intense, alert silence, and then he moved away, his steps as intent and determined as ever Bodie’s run had been.

#

Bodie fired another stun round into the second guard, and stepped over the prone forms of both men. They hadn’t had a chance against his skill. While the TV cameras and heli-reporters were still swamped on the roof, he’d already gained access to the building and down several floors. 

The electronic security equipment was, of course, a problem—or it would be, if he hadn’t nicked a certain little item from Cowley’s box of tricks. Simple little device—plug it into any outlet and watch it reach electronic tentacles into every corner of the security system, taking it over as quietly as a ninja. A platoon could’ve marched through this place now and no alarms would’ve gone off. As it was, there was only Bodie: two guns, one knife, and a lot of anger.

He hadn’t realised how hard it would be to make Doyle stay behind. Good thing he’d brought the cuffs—just in case. But the hardest part had been seeing the look of wounded betrayal in Ray’s green eyes.

Those eyes. Doyle thought he was tough (and okay, he was), but everything he felt showed in them.

It was difficult to think that would be his last memory of Bodie: leaving him like that, going without him, angry with him. Except Bodie was really just trying to protect him, to keep him out of this private, personal vendetta. He hoped Ray would realise that someday.

Bodie’s gaze scanned the empty hall. There. Ahead, the right room number for the head of R&D, Olwin Geese. 

Bodie knew him from when he’d only been the head of a project—a _certain_ project.

He moved to the door with the swift, unstoppable fury of a trained soldier. He’d died once already and been stitched back together. It didn’t matter so much if he died this time. Even if they didn’t fix him.

He spared one last thought for Doyle, sending a message out into the cosmos, into the universe, hoping and wishing that Doyle would realise and forgive him, truly forgive him someday. Then he kicked down the door and barged through.

#

Bodie held the gun steadily to Geese’s head. “Now the rest of the data.”

The heavy man’s hand shook. He was hesitating, and he shouldn’t be hesitating. The confession vid about the drug trial he’d run hadn’t taken long. The email addresses of all the major news corporations on the planet hadn’t taken long to type, either.

They might learn Geese had written this under protest—were bound to—but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t check the facts. Nothing reporters like better than digging for conspiracies, especially involving enraged gunmen. 

The truth would come out, even if Bodie wasn’t alive to see it.

“You’re stalling.” Bodie pushed the gun harder against his head. The man’s eyes closed. “You think someone is going to rescue you? They’re not.”

Geese’s upper lip firmed. “You won’t make it out of here alive.”

“Maybe, but if I’m going down, so are you. Finish it, and hit send!”

It would be easier if Geese didn’t have one of those new fingerprint-locked keyboards. Then Bodie could’ve just shoved the man aside and attached the confession video and the raw data himself. But if Bodie touched this keyboard it would stop working.

Yes, they could afford lots of technology safeguards when it came to protecting their own arses.

But when it came to drug trials...

He struggled to push aside his helpless rage. He wouldn’t be helpless. He’d finish this. “The rest of it. Now type.”

A whirring sound made Bodie’s head jerk a little. He kept his gun steady on Geese, but stepped back, so the man couldn’t rush him. He risked a quick glance at the door—no, it was still locked and blocked. They wouldn’t get in for a few minutes at least. How had they found out...?

Then a movement caught the corner of his eye. By the window! They’d discovered him—

He walked calmly over to Geese, and held the gun tightly to the man’s head. “Hit send,” he rasped. The extra data would have to wait.

The man hesitated.

“Hit send, or I’ll kill you.”

The man clicked. Bodie glanced at the email, saw it had gone: to the correct addresses, with at least most of the information. Something in him relaxed, a little. He didn’t want to die, but he’d got used to the idea. There was nothing he absolutely had to do yet, so it was all right.

Slowly, the window-cleaning machine rose into view. They’d no doubt come with lots of guns, ready to shoot him. Well, all right: every dog had its day, and then its night.

_Farewell, cruel world. Bye, Ray._

The first sign of humanity he saw... was a mop of curly hair. It was so outside the possibilities of what he’d imagined that he blinked, wondering if he was imagining someone who looked so like Ray.

If so, his hallucination was realistic indeed. There was his busted cheekbone, his hard, slender body—and a very large gun in his arms.

As Bodie gaped, Ray pressed a diamond cutter against the glass, cut a large circle, and pushed. The glass clattered to the floor in one piece. Doyle stepped through, took a couple more steps towards Bodie, and then stopped. His face was intent, and his eyes bright, blazing green. “Hello, sunshine. I’m here to rescue you.” He glanced at Geese. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Doyle!” Bodie exploded. 

He heard it now, the sound of footsteps down the hall. They really were coming, would find him any minute. “You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to die!”

“Neither are you.” Ray jerked his head towards the window. “That’s why I’m here. Go on, you can explain later.”

Ray pointed his stungun towards Geese and fired. The executive slumped over his desk.

Doyle started back for the window, strutting confidently, as if absolutely certain Bodie would follow.

And Bodie? He followed, feeling as if he was in a dream, or perhaps that Doyle was a white rabbit and they were both going far, far away.

They climbed out the window and rode the window-cleaning platform down in silence, except for the slow whir of its motors. The machine moved slowly. The TV cameras and heli-reporters hovered around the building, still in sight, but none of them seemed to see the men descending. Bodie held his gun ready, as did Doyle, both silently and deadly alert. But no one seemed to notice them.

“What did you—”

“Cloak device from Cowley.” Doyle’s voice was abrupt, short, and utterly tense. He didn’t turn to look at Bodie. “Get ready, sunshine,” he said in a low voice, his whole body tight and gathering itself. 

“Ray...” He wanted to reach out and touch Doyle’s shoulder, to offer some explanation, or at least apologise.

“Shh!” Doyle tensed, ready to leap. The platform neared the ground. Doyle reached down and wrenched a small device from the floor of the platform, shoved it in his pocket. “Come on, then!” He jumped to the ground and Bodie followed, running fast and low after his partner. Did the device keep them invisible now? But what if someone saw the platform blink back into existence? 

Gunfire, and close over the sounds of sirens and helicopter blades beating the air.

“Run,” said Doyle, low and hoarse and awful. He plucked Bodie’s sleeve and they pelted as hard as they could. Bullets blasted the ground behind them, around them. 

Ahead, Bodie saw the bike that Ray had supplied for their getaway, red with sleek lines. In spite of everything, he grinned ruefully. _Likes the classics, he does,_ thought Bodie. For a moment, it felt wonderful to be so very alive: gun in his hands, partner by his side. And then, beside him, Doyle cried out and fell.

“Ray!” Bodie dropped his gun and whirled to catch his partner, haul him back to his feet and towards the bike. Blood spurted from Doyle’s leg. It was bad. It was bloody bad, flesh all torn up: a man could die from such a wound. 

“Almost there! Don’t faint! Where’s Cowley waiting?” Because he had to be; Doyle couldn’t pull off a rescue mission getaway like this without the boss’s help. Though goodness knows how... “Ray!” The spray of bullets had moved in another direction, but the moment the bike disappeared, the gunmen would have a pretty good inkling of the direction to shoot. And Ray was bleeding out... Bodie pressed his hand there, hard, yanked a handkerchief out and tied it. The rough pressure brought Doyle back towards consciousness, panting hard.

“Ahead—two streets. I was going to bloody—rescue— _you_...”

“Never mind.” Bodie hauled him up, half carrying him. He straddled the bike and manhandled Doyle on behind him. He throttled.

“Don’t faint!” he yelled over the roar of the powerful engine. The wind ruffled his hair wildly, and he felt Doyle hanging onto him, his heart thumping, bleeding out for Bodie...

He rode hard, for their lives. He couldn’t hear bullets over the wind and the roar of the engine.

It was the longest two streets of his life. Bodie was certain his hair must be going grey. But—there. Cowley’s ship, taking up half a parking lot. Cowley stood in front of it, arms crossed. As the bike approached, he disappeared inside. A shiny ramp gleamed at the doorway. _That’s thinking ahead, Raymond._

Bodie rode the bike right up the ramp and into the cargo hold of the CI5. The engine sounded loud in its reflective metal. “We’re a go, sir!” shouted Bodie, hitting the brakes and dropping his feet against the floor, and steering wildly to keep from hitting the wall. Doyle’s grip weakened.

“Bodie...”

“It’s all right!” 

“Bo—”

The bike finally halted. He twisted and caught hold of Doyle behind him. “You can faint now,” said Bodie. And Doyle did.

#

The CI5 slid away from Earth space, splendid and shiny. Bodie stood at the back of the bridge, haggard and still not quite able to believe he was alive. With crisp efficiency, Cowley dispensed with the Earth security personnel who were at first angry, then beseeching, then apologetic. 

In those few minutes of watching Cowley flash his real security, it became demonstrably clear that Bodie had been underestimating the old man for some time. Apparently Cowley could do whatever he wanted, and did. He told the Earth security exactly who they could talk to if they had a problem with Cowley leaving and taking a dangerous gunman with him. He told them exactly what trouble they could be in for shooting at said gunman in the first place. And he told them exactly what else would be happening to them if they had dented his precious CI5 with even one of their ill-conceived, moronic shots at the rising ship.

Bodie had been carrying Ray to the sick bay—unconscious, utterly limp in his arms, bleeding so very hard—so he’d missed all the gunfire, and the first angry calls, and the skilful piloting that Cowley had displayed bringing them up into orbit in a remarkably short time.

He’d stayed till they got Doyle’s vital signs under control. Till he couldn’t bear to watch anymore while they started operating. It was all his fault. He’d gone to the bridge, to receive his bollocking.

Finally, Cowley clicked the communications off. “Well, Bodie?” he asked, turning with a sardonic look.

“No excuse, sir.”

“Don’t give me that. You went there on a private vendetta. What was it?” Cowley’s gaze could’ve melted lead. But he was right; Bodie had to tell him.

“It was my fault, sir. When I was in the Army, there was a drugs trial you could take for King Industries—a test sort of thing, supposed to help solve the common cold. I thought it sounded like a lark. Extra pay, a few days off. Plus it looked good on your record. I was going to do it, and I talked to some buddies of mine. We all signed up. Planned to do it together, like we did everything else.” He heaved a shaky breath. Now that he was finally spilling the words, there seemed no stopping them. 

“Only I got sick at the last minute. Couldn’t use us if we were sick, so everyone went without me, and I stayed in the infirmary. They teased me about it. Seemed like nothing at the time, sir. Only—only one of my friends died of cancer soon after he got out of the military. Seemed such a shame, young chap, so f-full of life, sir.” 

Bodie found he was blinking, rather hard, trying to keep his voice level, and staring straight ahead, like a soldier reporting. He couldn’t look at Cowley’s eyes while he said this, while he shared his awful shame. “Another one died a year later. But I was busy by then, didn’t think. I didn’t think, sir. When you said that about—about King Industries, and the—the drug trials, I looked them up, my old mates. They’re dead, sir. They’re all dead.”

He sat down, suddenly, heavily on the chair at the back of the bridge.

“Bodie.” Cowley was there, beside him, gripping his arm hard. “It wasn’t your fault. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“No sir.” He shook his head. “I should’ve avenged them. I should’ve known. Instead I lived my life, not knowing what happened. Such a bloody—fool. _And taking the trial was my idea,_ and I’m the only one who— I’m such a bloody...”

“Soldier!” snapped Cowley. “The rest of it, if you please. What did you do in the building?”

Bodie swallowed convulsively. Only Cowley’s harsh tone had pulled him back from bursting into tears, or possibly tearing the bridge apart with his bare hands. But it worked. 

“Sir! I tracked down the man in charge, sir. I made him write and send a confession with data attached to all the major news corporations. It was all I could think—” He swallowed, hard. “I thought I’d die, and deserve death, and well-worth it. But Ray came... and you came. I’m here now, but they’re still dead. They’re still dead.”

Again Cowley gripped his shoulder, hard. “Never mind, son.” His burr was pronounced now. “I’ll see to the rest. You’ll be all right. Hold out your arm, soldier.” Obediently, Bodie did. Cowley’s cool, dry fingers pushed up Bodie’s sleeve, and Bodie stared down, through his tears, at his own scarred, pale flesh as Cowley pushed a needle with expert fingers into his flesh and administered a shot.

He looked up at Cowley through his tears. “Are you killing me, sir? I deserve it.”

Cowley’s smile was cracked and gentle. “A tranquilizer, Bodie. You’re in shock. Rest now, lad. Sleep...”

His voice seemed to come from far away, and the needle was removed with as little pain as its first faint sting. Cowley steered Bodie back against the seat, rested his hand briefly on Bodie’s shoulder, and that was all.

#

Doyle awoke slowly. His leg was completely numb, and Cowley’s face hovered as if disembodied over him. “I see you are awake, Doyle,” he said without preamble. 

“Yes sir.” Doyle struggled to push back a huge yawn. He was very thirsty. He tried to sit up, but dizziness pushed him back to a prone position. “Our—our bargain?”

Cowley inclined his head. “Bodie is here. I’ve taken care of everything. Bodie’s information is actually helpful, now that I know what he knew. King Industries is facing an incredible quantity of sanctions for their latest tests and earlier ones—but Bodie will tell you about that, later.”

“But he’s all right?”

“Yes, Doyle. He’s... resting.”

“Not hurt? They can’t... keep him here?” 

“No, Doyle.” Cowley gave a slow, tight smile. “Perhaps one of these days I will sit down with you and explain more of the purview of my authority and the very few limits to it. For now, simply trust me that I have everything under control.” He turned to leave the infirmary, and then paused in the doorway, looking back. His gaze was hard to read behind his glasses, but solemn and somehow important-looking. “And Doyle, you were right. You were right about Bodie, about going back for him.”

Doyle felt a grin stretch his face, and he sank back to his pillow, closing his eyes. That was all right, then...

The extra years he’d agreed to work for Cowley were worth it, if Bodie was going to be all right. 

#

When in doubt, run. Bodie continued his second circuit around the ship, feet pounding on the hard metal floors, ringing loud as if he was a robot. Sweat plastered his jumpsuit to him, making him wish he was brave enough to strip down halfway naked the way Doyle did. 

Doyle. He’d been sleeping a hell of a lot. The robot docs had decided to keep him under as much as possible, because the shot wound to his leg had been remarkably bad. Major reconstructive surgery, a long recovery, and he’d heal better and quicker the more he rested. 

And why did Doyle keep getting hurt, anyway? It wasn’t bloody fair. Bodie had been the one to—

He cut off that line of thinking. Cowley had arranged for him to take part in a virtual reality counselling programme. It was actually helping a bit with his unbearable feelings of grief, guilt, and rage. He was starting to think that someday he’d even be able to handle being the last one from his unit alive.

Cowley helped, too. He told Bodie how Doyle had been in his corner and stuck up for him, even after Cowley showed him the stills and spying images he’d saved. How Ray had come back, insisting that Bodie was making a breakthrough on the King case and that if they didn’t rescue him they might never find out what it was. He’d begged, insisted, and bargained (promising extra years locked into working for Cowley, at a ridiculously low wage), and in the end, he’d got his way. He’d grabbed a gun, glass cutter, and the cloak device, then hired the fastest bike he could find. And he’d been the bloody cavalry.

Sometimes Bodie still got choked up when he thought of everything Ray had done. 

Cowley said the motorcycle was coming out of his pay. He spoke in censorious tones, but in the next breath, he mentioned taking care of the warrant for Doyle’s arrest on the Lawson colony. And when Bodie dropped by to check on Doyle, sometimes he found Cowley dropping by, too.

Bodie increased his speed, hoping to sweat out more of his guilt and tension. If only he could apologise. He could never apologise to his dead comrades for not realising they’d been as good as murdered by a wealthy bastard in a drug company that only cared about money. 

But he had to make it up to Ray, somehow. He burned with shame when he thought of how Doyle must’ve felt about seeing those images he’d taken. Especially with what Bodie knew now: how prickly Ray felt about people staring at him, laughing at him—and why. It must’ve felt like the worst betrayal, and yet he’d still stuck by Bodie.

How could Bodie ever face him again after that?

Cowley and the great ponderous justice system were working their course. Through Cowley’s information and Bodie information and the scandal and charges they faced, King Industries would be pinned like a bug. Its days, or at least the days of the prime movers in the company, were numbered. The ones responsible were already being rooted out, locked away without the possibility of parole. Goliath was tumbling, and maybe the CI5, Cowley, Bodie, and Doyle weren’t such a little David after all.

“You know, sir,” Bodie had said, “you have to let me work off the time he agreed to.” He met Cowley’s gaze squarely, facing up to his responsibility. Doyle couldn’t sacrifice anything else for him. And if his recovery went as poorly as it sometimes seemed to be going...

Cowley had met his gaze right back, and declared, “You’ll both work it off. However, I’ll pay you what you’ve been earning up till now, and you’ll work together. I’m beginning to see that’s the only way either of you are any good to me.”

It was really the best of news. Bodie thanked him, and then tried to get up his nerve. “Sir...” he began slowly. 

“Yes, Bodie?” Cowley appeared amused, almost tolerant. 

“The CI5. Why? You’re much too powerful to be stuck on such a little ship. What are you doing jauntering about the universe in the CI5?”

“Ach, being tied to a desk gets boring. And sometimes I want to check things out for myself. Or test out new agents who will work for me.” His eyes—was it possible?—nearly twinkled. “And I had a ship much like this when I was a lad.”

Bodie couldn’t keep back his grin.

#

Doyle yawned. He stretched his arms over his head, feeling the unaccustomed twinges of movement. How long had they kept him under?

He smiled up at Bodie, who sat on a chair next to the bed. Bodie shifted awkwardly, smiled, and dropped his gaze. But his smile looked authentic, and very pleased. “Don’t think about getting up.” Bodie jerked his head towards a wheelchair sitting next to the bed. “You’ll be popping wheelies before you’re fit for walking, much less running.”

Doyle stilled. “But I will walk, and run.” It wasn’t really a question. Not really.

“Yeah.” Bodie nodded. “Of course. Ray—”

Doyle held up a hand. “Feel like I’ve been in this bed forever. Once I take care of some things, will you come back and give me a tour or something? I’ve got to get out of here.”

Bodie’s eyes looked very large and dark in his face. He nodded without saying a word. So much that he wanted to say was clear on his face, but Doyle really needed to pee.

“Right, call me one of the robots. Meet me here in ten minutes?”

“You’re one of the robots. Let’s say fifteen.” Bodie smiled, that old cheeky Bodie smile, the best smile in the world. He gave Doyle a wink. “See ya, sunshine.”

#

“Ray? I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Was it really as easy as that? 

They sat side by side in the virtual reality room. Around them, a beautiful sunset bloomed. At least in the programme, he wasn’t in a wheelchair. Bodie had found and loaded it for him, so he could watch the sunset he hadn’t managed to see on Earth. A gentle, rolling English countryside scene surrounded them, with birds gently twittering in hedges. Ahead, a little hedgehog trundled away. Bodie had said there was a badger in the programme as well.

Bodie had pushed him in a wheelchair around the ship, explaining more of the details he’d missed and what would happen now. 

And now they sat in the beautiful, heart-felt silence, the apology between them easily offered and easily accepted. He’d never have thought that would be enough. Thought he’d have to demand an explanation, find out _why_ Bodie had spied on him and hadn’t trusted him, and wring from him a promise that he’d never do either again.

But when it came down to it, those two words were enough: ‘I’m sorry.’ Because Bodie really meant them, and because Ray still trusted him. Still believed in him.

Bodie reached up and rested an arm around Ray’s shoulder, a comfortable, settled weight. Bodie sighed, a deep, heavy sigh but not a sad sigh, as if he was letting something go. “Ray?” he said again, even more hesitantly.

Doyle turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

“When you’re well enough, can we—” He bit his lip, looking for a moment like an overgrown schoolboy. “Can we try zero-g sometime? Like you used to?”

Doyle’s brows rose. “What—you mean, together? Mock fighting, I suppose?” He imagined it: pushing off from the walls and flying about, meeting in rough and tumble tag or wrestling matches. Being silly, getting the giggles, trying to outdo one another with stunts and feats of daring. Oh yes, he could picture it. He felt a grin growing on his face. “Why, I think we could do that.”

Bodie’s answering grin dimmed the sunset. His arm tightened around Doyle’s shoulder in a friendly half-hug.

And—there! Most perfect of all. The badger.

 

 

**[Fin]**

 

_...end transmission, thank you for reading..._


End file.
